


The Mortal City

by Midnight_Run



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Character Study, Dangan Ronpa Spoilers, F/F, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Enoshima Junko/Tsumiki Mikan, Minor Kirigiri Kyoko/Naegi Makoto/Togami Byakuya, Minor Koizumi Miharu/Sato, Minor Komaeda Nagito/Tsumiki Mikan, Minor Mioda Ibuki/Tsumiki Mikan, Minor Naegi Makoto/Togami Byakuya, Minor Souda Kazuichi/Tanaka Gundam, Multi, Neo World Program (Dangan Ronpa), No Anime Brainwashing We Despair Like Real Men, Not Canon Compliant - Dangan Ronpa 3, Not Canon Compliant - New Dangan Ronpa V3, POV Multiple, Please See Notes in Ch.1 for More Extensive Content Warnings, Super Dangan Ronpa 2 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:21:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 278,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4043965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnight_Run/pseuds/Midnight_Run
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which waking up is never the hardest part....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Waking

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers, spoilers everywhere. Contains giant, heaping great spoilers for the two primary Dangan Ronpa games as well as Ultra Despair Girls (beginning specifically in Ch7 for AE:UDG) and a few for the entirety of Dangan Ronpa 3 as well. Please mind the content warning tag(s) if you need to as they are updated with each new chapter (as necessary) because I write disturbing shit sometimes and you should know what you're getting into.
> 
>  **Content Warning(s):** So putting the content warnings in the tags for this has gotten a little unwieldy so this section will now address the particulars that go into the rating. If you don't want to know or don't care, feel free to skip this section. If you have any questions, feel free to let me know. This story contains the following content: Implied and Mild Sexual Content, Possibly Disturbing Themes, Consent Issues, Suicide Attempt(s), Explicit Language, Body Horror, Non-Con Elements, Implied Child Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Murder, Psychological Trauma, Amputation, Memory Issues, Dementia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Canon-Typical Violence, References to Cannibalism, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Non-Graphic Necrophilia, Canonical Character Death, Strangulation, Mental Instability, Incredibly Unhealthy Relationships, Bullying, Abandonment, Mental Health Issues, Mentioned and Referenced Animal Injury, Cruelty and Death, and Implied Physical Abuse.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hajime wakes up.

_“Strange, I thought, how you can be living your dreams and your nightmares at the very same time.”_  
― Ransom Riggs, Hollow City

 

**DAY ONE**  
**+++**

It was dark and all he could hear before a dead boy's voice cut through the darkness like a knife was the soft rasp of steady breathing and the faint rustle of clothing.

“I don’t really understand why you’re wasting your thoughts on someone as worthless as me,” the dead boy murmured, his voice soft and close.

“Komaeda?” Hajime whispered, reaching out a hand into the black. His fingers settled in something soft, silky.

He’d only touched Komaeda’s hair once. In the hospital, he’d laid his fingers against his pillow as Komaeda murmured delirious dislike while he was locked in the throes of the despair disease and it hadn’t felt anything like this. It had been oily, damp with sweat, as difficult to bear as the boy it belonged to.

He hadn’t wanted to worry about him then either.

“We’re all somewhere, aren’t we? Why not here?” A rustling in the dark and cool fingers slid across the bridge of his nose, down his cheek leaving a trail of damp behind that smelled like copper. “Unless you don’t want garbage like me sullying your mental landscape?”

“Was anything you said the truth?” He whispered, tightening his fingers in that soft, silky hair, edging closer. “Anything at all?”

“Which do you hope for?” More rustling, the hair in his grasp slipped free and a breath that was not his own rushed warm and damp over his parted lips; slim cool fingers settled unseen in his hair, pulling just a little. “Why is my worthless self here with you in the dark? Why not her? Why not any of the others? They’re extraordinary talent, I would think an ordinary, boring nobody like you would be more interested in their company than the touch of scum like me. Yet here I am. What do you _hope_ for from me, _Hinata_?”

The way he said his name felt like an insult, subtle and sly.

Something warm and damp slid across his bottom lip and he shuddered, closing his eyes as disgust warred with desire. That was familiar at least. He’d always been attracted and repelled by Komaeda in equal measure. The scent of blood was stronger now, almost nauseating, but not quite.

A gentle weight settled over his hips and he lifted hands that felt heavy as lead automatically to slide beneath the heavy jacket that was draped around and over them, settling against a slim, t-shirt clad waist, steadying him, as if Komaeda had ever needed that. Still, he laid his hands there, supporting him, holding him in place as if he might escape or fade away.

It was difficult to think past the feel of him.

Past the smell of him, cooling sweat and blood and the crackle of fire.

Past the weight of him, so much lighter than it seemed like he should be.

Everything about this, about him, seemed familiar even while it also seemed completely new and incredibly strange.

What did he hope for?

He wasn’t sure he hoped for anything at all except that he should remain himself. Which seemed like a strange thing to hope for, but it was there nonetheless though he couldn’t quite remember why. But he was glad that Komaeda was here. In spite of everything that happened, events half-remembered that he couldn’t seem to bring into focus, he was still _glad_. 

“I don’t know,” he answered because everything about the boy hovering above him confused him; the way he felt about him most of all.

“Liar, liar,” the words were spoken against his lips so he could feel each syllable.

Then the weight and feel of Komaeda was gone leaving behind only the scent of copper and the taste like the tang of metal on his lips as the presence that had felt so solid against him only a moment before dissipating like smoke and he was left alone in the dark.

 

**+++**

It was still dark and his friends were screaming.

He needed to wake up.

Hajime Hinata opened his eyes to a sickly green glow, his heart thudding too hard and too fast in his chest, to the sound of screaming, loud and hoarse and interspersed with ragged sobs. He lashed out at the dimly lit walls that surrounded him on all sides, kicking at those too close walls with legs that were stiff and aching and beating against the opaque top with his fists until he felt the plastic begin to give, to crack. He thought he could hear something, someone, speaking, but it was muffled, outside perhaps, too far away to be anything he could make sense of. He couldn't make sense of anything. He couldn’t think of why he would be in this box, of what had happened, couldn’t even focus enough to remember what had happened. He’d been dreaming of Komaeda and Komaeda was dead… but then again maybe not.

Everything was jumbled and confused and everything hurt and he remembered codes and a voice like nails screeching, screaming across a chalkboard. Voices of the dead and dying and then a awful feeling in his head, a creeping, terrible sensation like that childhood certainty of a monster in the closet or under the bed and he could not shake the idea that he was not alone in his mind. And he couldn’t breathe in this place, in this box, in this plastic coffin. He just needed to be out, needed to escape. Everything hurt and that sobbing was just getting louder and louder and he was running out of air, gasping and gasping and he was going to die in here. It was too much, too much, too much and he hit the top again and again until his knuckles ached, cracked and bled.

The cover lifted at last and he sat up, panicking again as something grabbed him by the hair and yanked him back into the pod hard. Pain screamed red and black and excruciating through his scalp. Tears sprang to his eyes and the screaming that surrounded him became even more shrill as he tried again, yanking so hard as he scrambled up that the entire world seemed to shift to the side.

There was a panicked moment of confusion as he crashed hard against a surface too solid, smooth and unforgiving to be anything but concrete. He feel himself, rolling, spilling out across it even as the air was painted white and soundless as the agony of impact seemed to swallow the whole of the world. Slowly darkness and faint green light seeped back into the world in the aftermath and he found himself panting, aching, freezing against the cold, filthy floor.

He tried to move, to scramble to up, but something had followed him from the plastic coffin and the weight of it fell over him like a blanket, wrapped around him, catching and tangling at his fingers and toes. He tore at it, shoved at it, but it just seemed to wind tighter and tighter around him as pain shot through his skull, blinding and intense. He could hear voices, words, calling to him, but he couldn't make any sense of them through the desperate, panicked screams that set his ears ringing.

He wasn't sure when in that endless panicked scramble of blind terror that he realized that the creature he was fighting was his own hair, but eventually he did, eventually the screams dissolved into quiet, jerky sobs and he collapsed against the ground, angry tears sliding down his cheeks as he curled in on himself, bringing his knees up as far as he could manage, his hair still tangled around his fingers and tugging pain against his scalp.

Trembling hands gripped his arms and his panicked gaze dodged up to a face he didn't quite recognize. Her face was so gaunt and pale and there were shadows like bruises beneath familiar blue eyes that were so dark and deep that it hurt to realize that he knew this woman. That he’d known the girl she had been even if only for a little while in a world that was both real and illusion. Her name was a sob choked out as he collapsed against her bony shoulder.

She made a soft startled noise, shushing him even as she gathered him to her chest with trembling hands. “Oh hush, hush, my dear friend,” she whispered and her voice sounded so raw and rough like her heart was breaking or had been broken so many time that there were pieces missing that kept it from every being whole. Or maybe she’d just been screaming too. Maybe they both had. “It will be all right.”

It was a lie neither of them could ever believe, but it was nice to hear the words nonetheless.

As he calmed, he realized he could see the others hovering hesitantly nearby. So much older, so worn and tired and beaten and changed by the things they had done, the people they had been in the years between who they had been and who they were now. And as he looked at each of them there was this terrible ache inside him for all the things they’d lost and for all that they had suffered, both real and imagined, but he couldn’t help but be glad that they were here. That they had made it and he looked up at them and they looked down at him hesitantly and he wondered what they saw when they looked at him.

Was he horrifying to them?

Or were they just afraid that he wasn’t himself? 

That he was the monster Izuru must have been rather than the person they had known in the game?

Fuyuhiko was the first of them to break the silence as he stepped forward, his voice as brusque and brash as it had ever been. “About fucking time you woke up.”

It wasn’t funny.

It wasn’t really funny at all and wasn’t meant to be because Fuyuhiko didn’t make jokes, not that he’d ever seen, but he started laughing anyway and once he started, he couldn't seem to stop. 

It was a hoarse, wheezing sound and there were still tears rolling down his face, but it felt real and good and he felt his lips tremble with something that wasn’t quite a smile but wanted to be and then Fuyuhiko was there. Close and warm and holding him more tightly than Sonia had, tight enough to make his bones ache, but he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

“It’s good to see you, brother,” Fuyuhiko rasped, against his ear and he just nodded unable to force words past the lump in his throat, but it was, it really _was_. So, in the end, he just wrapped an arm around Fuyuhiko's broad back and fisted a hand in his too-tight shirt and held on, trembling with a bone-deep relief that he was here, that _they_ were here.

Eventually he used his free hand to reach out to Sonia because he wasn’t ready to be so far away from her yet. It felt like he’d been apart from them for years even though in reality it had only been something like moments and they’d probably never actually met before… before he had become what he had become.

He met Sonia’s eyes over Fuyuhiko’s shoulder and Sonia nodded her understanding, turning to beckon the two standing awkwardly a few paces off closer and they both lunged forward as if they’d only been waiting for an invitation. He felt Souda's hand clasp his shoulder and felt Akane's face pressed against his back like she didn't even care about all his strange, tangled hair and he was sobbing again, only this time it was against Fuyuhiko's shoulder as the man who called him brother patted his back awkwardly and tried to pretend he wasn't crying too.

The five of them slumped together on the floor, the survivors of unimaginable horror, but also the cause of so much pain that it was difficult to even think about. It had been a terrible choice to come back and he could see the beginnings of what it had cost them, the horror of what they had been lingering in their faces as they began to reconcile who they were with what they had been. He could feel it in trembling hands and fingers that gripped too hard, too desperate for the support of others who knew, who understood that they had been monsters, that they had allowed themselves to be ravaged by despair, had _reveled_ in it, but that wasn’t all they were.

Wasn’t all they could be and… it, they, were… okay.

Not great, by any stretch of the imagination, but okay, because they weren't alone. They weren't alone anymore. They were together and they'd made it this far. They'd made it through all the horror and all the despair. And maybe they'd never be free of the things they had done, the people they had been, but that didn't seem so awful when there were arms to hold you together and friends who understood so completely what you were going through.

The relief that they were all able to be here, that they had all come through was enough for now.

Later there would be time to worry about the three virtual strangers standing nearby and the impatient tip-tapping of an expensive dress shoe against the concrete floor.

There would also be time later to get to work on how they were going to save their friends, because they _were_ going to save them.

But for now there was just relief and gratitude and warm arms to hold them and joy and the bubbling laughter and tears that came with it.

And there was _hope_.

For the first time in a long time, there was hope for the future and for now that was enough.


	2. Moving On and Moving In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hajime deals with a number of very uncomfortable realities.

_“There must have been a moment, at the beginning, where we could have said -- no. But somehow we missed it. ”_  
― Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead

 

**DAY ONE**  
-continued-  
**+++**

“So, you want some pants or something?” Akane asked minutes or hours later when they were all still sprawled together on the floor, no longer hugging, but still touching gently, thoughtlessly, silently. Sometimes holding hands or just leaning against each other.

Hajime closed his eyes, pained, as he realized that he had, somehow, in the terror of the hair and falling out of the pod and in the shock of seeing them again as they truly were and the joy of holding them, utterly failed to notice that he was completely stark naked. And now that he was thinking about it his skin itched where the hair lay against it and his butt and legs were cold and numb where they pressed against the concrete floor. “Please,” he murmured, the word coming out straggled and his face hot with delayed embarrassment. “Sorry.”

Fuyuhiko snorted, “Like you can even really tell with all that fucking hair everywhere.”

“Do you have to say it like that?” Hajime sighed, opening his eyes again just as a pair of black pants hit him in the face and dropped into his lap. “Thanks,” he managed, darting a glance up at Akane who shrugged and flopped back down on the floor across from him between Sonia and Souda.

Sonia cleared her throat and straightened, looking away pointedly as he wiggled into the pants, cursing softly as his too long hair continued to just make everything more and more difficult. He collapsed back to the ground once he’d finally managed to tug the pants on, panting and exhausted like he’d run a mile instead of just putting on a pair of pants. “We were all like that at first, I believe.” Sonia murmured, glancing back at him with a wan smile. “We all woke up a few hours ago. It was time enough to get dressed and get a little used to moving around again before you...hm....” She paused, clearly trying to come up with a kinder way to describe it than 'had a screaming, hysterical fit like a giant freak and broke your pod', finally settling on an apologetic, "...woke up."

"So, you're you, right? No crazy super mega-talented nutballs jangling around in there?" Souda asked finally, changing the subject and winning a grateful look from Sonia that would have had him blushing if he'd noticed. Instead he was focused on Hajime, nudging Hajime's leg with his bare foot. None of them were wearing shoes and that seemed kind of weird, but then nothing about this situation was exactly normal.

He nodded slowly, hesitantly, and it didn’t feel like a lie, but it didn’t feel quite like the truth either. "I'm definitely Hinata Hajime. I don't know that Izuru is gone for good, but I'm definitely me."

"I am so very glad," Sonia whispered, reaching out to give his hand a quick squeeze. "So very, very glad."

Akane made a rude noise, shifting back to lean on her elbows. Just like in the game, she didn’t sit so much as she sprawled, heedless and uncaring that they could all see her panties because her shirt had ridden up too high (and she had for whatever reason chosen to forego pants altogether). Fuyuhiko kept darting glances at that shirt, his cheeks red, the mildly sour expression on his face making it look like he couldn’t decide whether to tug her shirt down or just leave it alone. "I wasn't worried,” she scoffed. “I knew you'd be fine."

Fuyuhiko punched Hajime’s shoulder gently before leaning his head down to hide a smile glowing with pride, apparently deciding to leave the issue of Akane’s indecency alone for the moment. "Too fucking right. No way you weren't gonna to make it through."

"As much as I hate to interrupt this touching reunion," a voice called from across the room, sounding anything but sorry. "We do have a few pressing issues to address not that everyone is awake."

"Come on, Byakuya, give them a few minutes."

"They’ve _had_ a few minutes. They’ve _had_ half a damn _hour_. Exactly how long do you expect me to coddle them, Naegi? What exactly might be the appropriate amount of time to wait before we remind them that their circumstances are quite a bit less than ideal and that time is rather of the essence?"

"I don’t think they’ve forgotten that and I'm not asking you to coddle them. I know that’s just not in your wheelhouse. Just give them like an hour to bask in the fact that they're alive and get to know each other again a little bit before dropping the weight of the world on their shoulders. They've had a hard couple of weeks. You remember what it was like for us. I seem to remember you-"

"Shut. _Up._ One more word, Naegi, and you're going to wish-"

"You both realize that they aren't actually deaf, correct?" Kirigiri Kyouko interjected, leaving her partners behind to stride across the room to the small knot of people on the ground. Her suit was smart and expensive and stylish and her hair hung long around her, her gloved hands folded neatly in front of her. She didn’t look so very different from the image of her they’d seen in the game, none of them did really- just a little older, perhaps, and a little more care-worn, but not so different that they weren’t easily and immediately recognizable as themselves. "I apologize. It would be ideal if we could wait a little longer and give you all some time to process both what has happened to you and your present circumstances, but we're all concerned that time may well be the one thing we don't have enough of."

"Is it the Future Foundation? Is that why…?"

Kirigiri offered Hajime a tight smile, "You're quick to see to the truth of things. That will only continue to aid you on the long road ahead. As you might have already guessed based on the information you received in the simulation, we are standing in opposition to the Future Foundation in regards to how they wish to deal with you all. It was their opinion that the best way to heal the world and the only way in which to deal with you, irredeemable as they believed you to be, was to allow you to stand trial for your crimes and eventually to kill you. We believe you all to be victims of Enoshima Junko just as surely as we were and we don't believe in punishing victims. It was our belief that if we could use the program to help correct some of the damage she had done to you all that we would be able to make the Future Foundation see the fallacy of treating victims as criminals. Obviously, things haven't quite gone according to plan. Nonetheless, we still believe that we shall be able to convince them to leave you be, but time is rather of the essence if we're going to assure the safety of your friends."

"If they even _try_ to hurt her, I'll fucking kill them." Fuyuhiko snarled, his fingers tightening painfully on Hajime's shoulder as he pushed himself shakily to his feet. "If they try to fucking hurt them, I…."

"Fuyuhiko," Hajime murmured, steadying his friend and clamoring to his feet beside him. His legs felt like wet noodles and his muscles screamed in protest at even this small effort. The others were pulling themselves up as well, climbing laboriously to their feet and, though they were all listing a bit and leaning on each other for support, they stood together. "It's okay. They already know that. They probably know better than anyone what we'd do to protect our friends now that we have a chance to do it right." Hajime glanced around the room, a room that was still more than half full of closed, glowing pods. He met Kirigiri’s cool, assessing gaze, "A lot of people you guys loved died because of in Junko's first game, right?"

Togami snorted, a soft disbelieving noise that was undermined immediately by Naegi’s whispered ‘hush’ and Togami’s lack of further comment.

Kirigiri hadn’t taken her eyes off him, hadn’t bothered to look back at the men behind her, instead she simply nodded once, her features betraying not a hint of her true feelings on the subject whatever they might be. But Hajime figured the fact that she- that they- had been willing to go this far for them in the first place, when they could have easily just written them off as the organization they worked for had clearly wanted to do, probably said more than enough about how they felt. "Very well. As that is the case, we need to begin making arrangements."

 

**+++**

Several hours later, they began the long and painstaking process of moving the pods containing their comatose friends to the hospital. It turned out that the game’s world had been pretty loosely based on the actual place and that many of the larger features and attractions were present in both versions of Jabberwock Island even if the actual article were quite a bit larger and had quite a bit more in the way of private housing and ordinary stores and that sort of thing.

“It _was_ meant to be a tourist destination originally after all,” Togami commented, arms still folded tightly across his chest.

It would have been easier to leave the pods where they were in the administrative building on the central island, but easier wasn’t always better. None of them had been able to stand the thought of leaving their friends in the same building as the computer system that had held the AI that had so closely mimicked Enoshima Junko.

Or as Fuyuhiko had so succinctly put it:

"I'd rather fucking _kill_ them myself than take even the smallest fucking chance that they're stuck in that machine at the mercy of that crazy fucking bitch."

"You do realize that the shut down program effectively killed the system and any trace of the virus, right?" Togami replied, his tone practically dripping sarcasm, as he rolled his eyes and tapped his foot impatiently.

"Byakuya…" Naegi began, brushing a hand across the small of Togami's back. It was a strangely intimate gesture and Hajime couldn’t help but notice the way some of the rigid irritation drained from Togami’s posture at that simple touch.

Togami sighed heavily, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. After a long moment he dropped his hand and turned sharply on his heel and stalked towards the exit. "Fine, do what you want. I'll go see to having the power restored in the hospital on the third island. It's the only place out here that is equipped to handle the electrical load of all these damnable pods. You’ll need to figure out making them ready for transport yourselves."

Naegi offered them a tentative smile after Togami disappeared through the door into the bright sunlight outside. It seemed weird and wrong to think of a world existing outside the door that was so bright and warm. "He's right, I think. If not here then it's going to have to be the hospital. I understand that isn’t the perfect solution, but if you don’t want them here, I think it’s the only option. I do understand why you wouldn't want them here and… it's really not a terrible idea to move them. My friend would have done everything he could to make sure he took the virus down, but Junko… well… at this point I wouldn't put anything past her, you know?"

Hajime nodded swiftly, "Yeah, that's what I think too. So, how much of the pods do we need to move for them to be safe? I mean… the pods are the reason our muscles didn't atrophy, right? At least not like they should have. The reason we’re in pretty decent shape all things considered?"

"Ah, caught that, huh? Yeah, the pods were built specifically to stimulate your muscles at set intervals to prevent the on-set of atrophy. And a bunch of other technical stuff about waste disposal and purification system and temperature regulation and monitoring equipment and a bunch of other stuff that I don’t even begin to understand; Byakuya would be able to explain it better than I can. He’s the one who commissioned them after all. There wasn't really anyway to build it into the system itself so the pods are all pretty self-contained, they just use a _lot_ of power. I mean, we were always planning to keep you guys in there for as long as it took and we thought that would probably be a couple months.”

He sighed and frowned and not for the first time Hajime noticed how different Naegi seemed from his game counterpart. He looked pretty similar just as Kirigiri and Togami did, a few years older, hair in a slightly different style, but pretty similar even down to the constant between how he dressed and how the other two dressed. While they both wore clean, pressed suits like they’d just come from a business meeting, Naegi was wearing a dark t-shirt and jeans that had clearly seen better days and had that vaguely distressed look clothes get when you've worn them a few days in a row. He seemed worn though, tired, in a way his determined younger self hadn't been, as if he'd seen a lot of things and found most of them exhausting. But it was really the tattoos that really sealed the deal. Hajime couldn't think of the kid Naegi's avatar had been adorned with those long swirling black tattoos that swept up and down his tan arms from just above his wrists to disappear beneath the short sleeves of his shirt. They probably wouldn’t be visible at all if he were wearing long sleeves, but with the t-shirt they were eye-catching and difficult to look away from. Whirls and and bursts of spiraling black made up of the characters for ‘earth’ and ‘peace’ and ‘cherry blossom’ and a hundred other things. It didn’t take a genius to know what those characters probably represented. Naegi noticed the direction of his gaze and shrugged, glancing over at Kirigiri who had removed herself from the conversation for the moment, content to observe. “It’s so I don’t ever forget again. So no one can ever make me forget what’s important to me.”

Hajime nodded, because that was an impulse he could understand. Naegi smiled and tucked his hands in his pockets, looking at each of them in turn. “Well, that was the original plan anyway, to be able to keep you all healthy however long it took for you to bond and start to heal. Things didn't work out that way, but without the pods you'd still have experienced a lot of problems after you woke up and… we kind of thought you’d have enough to deal with without adding more problems to the pile. So, the best thing would be to keep as much of it intact as possible, I guess. That’d be the best thing."

"I'll take a look at it," Souda volunteered, knotting his long, scraggly pink and black hair behind his head in a loose careless knot as he padded over to one of the pods. "Do you have the plans for these things or what?"

"Yes, we have all the paperwork," Kirigiri replied stepping away to pick up a briefcase that had been leaning against the wall near the door. Naegi looked at her as if he intended to question that, but she cut him off with a shake of her head. "I figured when everything managed to work out that we might need a way to dismantle the pods."

"Thanks, Kyouko," Naegi replied with a dazzling smile.

He looked a lot younger when he smiled.

 

**+++**

Seven nerve-wreaking, exhausting, virtually sleepless hours later, Souda had managed to dismantle and remodel most of the pods for transport. There had been a lot of cursing and they’d had to scavenge a lot of tools and supplies he needed from the other islands, a task that took hours since there were indeed no bridges linking the islands in the real world. If they wanted to go to a different island it was take a ferry, a motorboat or swim. The islands themselves were utterly deserted and devoid of any life except for them. It was unsettling. Not just because of the emptiness, but because it gave all the islands a strange, unfinished air like life had just up and taken off in the middle of a meal, food left on the plate and glass half full. There weren't many signs that people had been here before, but occasionally he'd run across a pair of discarded baby shoes in the high grass or a empty soda can on the side of the road or an abandoned bicycle leaning against a fence. Just little things that told a larger story he couldn't quite hear.

He’d asked Togami about that when he’d run across him on the third island, suit jacket off and sleeves rolled up, hair swept back behind his ears as he worked on the hospital’s generators. He'd been on his own as the others had already gone on ahead to the next island when he said he'd finish up here and catch a ride back with Togami. He'd asked the question while he sat near the door of the generator room waiting for Togami to finish up, a bucket of things for Souda beside him. Togami had looked at him as if he were the world’s biggest idiot, “Yes, because it seemed such a wonderful idea to bring fifteen mass murderers to a remote island filled with _tourists_. How _you_ managed to survive Enoshima is beyond me. I can only assume that little monster gifted you with some of his unnatural luck.”

“Komaeda?”

“To whom else might I be referring? _Honestly_ ,” Togami snapped, tweaking some last thing before slapping the panel closed and flipping several large switches before hitting a blinking green button. The generators coughed and spat out a little smoke. Slowly but surely though they both rumbled and hummed to life which Hajime was pretty sure meant they were working. Togami nodded and hummed to himself apparently satisfied with the result and wiped his hands with a ragged towel before rolling his shirtsleeves back down. He cut his eyes at Hajime, “Was there something you needed, Hinata?”

“Uh, um, no. Just... how did you clear the islands out?”

Togami sighed in a long-suffering manner that spoke of someone who did not suffer fools gladly, but was resigned to the idea that he would have to suffer them constantly nonetheless. “Most of them were already dead. It wasn’t difficult to convince the few who remained to leave the island with a generous relocation package and the promise of a new life somewhere that didn’t smell of rot where they weren’t quite as likely to starve to death. Then it was just a matter of disposing of all the corpses and cleaning up and restocking provisions. Hardly the work of years or magicians, just steady cash flow and a rather impressive number of trash barges.”

“How many people were there?” He whispered, because it seemed important to know suddenly, because if the people on these islands had died it was because of what they helped do. Another sin for the rather impressive stack they’d built.

Togami stared at him for a long moment before answering, his voice as bland as if he were reading entries out of a dictionary. “Nine hundred and eighty-two were killed in the rioting, the terror attacks or starved in the aftermath across all six islands. Fifty-three people survived until we arrived and all of those were hospitalized for one reason or another. Ten of those were clinically insane and ended up killing themselves within the first few days. The other forty-three are still recovering and it seems as likely as not that they’ll make it. Most of the survivors were younger than we are. It would seem the young have proven to be the most resilient in the face of all this in those instances when they managed to survive the initial violence. Though I suppose we’re all prime examples of the truth of that fun little factoid.”

“Okay,” Hajime managed, feeling sick to his stomach and glad that he hadn’t eaten anything since they woke up. If he had, he’d probably have thrown up all over Togami’s expensive shoes. “Okay. So. Nine hundred and ninety-two, just on these island.”

Togami rolled his eyes, sliding into his jacket and straightening the lapels before pulling the boat keys from some inner pocket. They jingled in his hand as he tapped them impatiently against his leg. “ _This_ is why I don’t like talking to you people. From now on, ask Makoto if you have any questions about this. I’m sure he’ll be able to put the facts in a less traumatizing context for you, softhearted, overly sympathetic idiot that he is. Yes, you had a hand in this; you are not entirely blameless no matter how much Makoto might wish it to be so. You had a choice and all actions have consequences. That’s life. You can’t run from the past or forget about it. It’ll always catch up to you eventually. I haven’t the least idea how much of all that happened you’re actually personally responsible for and I honestly could not possibly care less. I will, however, tell you what I do know and that is that none of this would have happened if it weren’t for Enoshima. She helped each of you onto the paths you ultimately chose and made quite certain you wouldn’t easily be turned aside. None of you would be here if not for her. So before you flog yourself repeatedly with the guilt of countless deaths, do _try_ to remember who is ultimately responsible for everything that happened and all that came after. Also, stop _crying_ , it’s embarrassing for both of us. Now you can follow me and I will take you back to the main island on the boat and we can never speak of this again. Or you can stay here and continue to sob like a child and swim back on your own later. I don’t actually care what you do, but I _would_ rather not have to listen Makoto bitch about my leaving you here by yourself.”

With that, Togami turned on his heel and stalked out of the hospital. Hajime trailed behind him, wiping frantically at the dampness on his cheeks with one hand while he tightly gripped the bucket of things he’d found for Souda with the other.

 

**+++**

The ride back to the Central Island was quiet save for the roar of the engine and the crash of water against the boat. When they arrived, Hajime left the boat and Togami behind and jogged all the way back to the Meeting Hall that housed the pods. When he arrived, Souda was alone, tucked under one of the pods, his bare feet tapping impatiently against the cool concrete. “Hello?” He called, sounding vaguely nervous.

“It’s just me,” Hajime replied, crossing the room to stand near the pod. Looked like it was the one that belonged to Ibuki. “I found some pliers, some tweezers, some more duct tape, a dozen nuts and bolts and some more oil.”

“Awesome, go ahead and set those down anywhere. I’m gonna be done pretty soon. Just got three more pods to do. Everybody else went to the first island to pick up supplies or something, I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Hajime replied, setting the bucket down near Ibuki’s pod with a clank and then moving to go lean against the far wall. There was no point in leaving to find them if they were on another island. He’d probably have had to ask Togami for a ride and… he’d kind of rather swim there than talk to Togami again anytime soon. “I’ll just stick around here then. Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Sure, no problem.” Souda replied, waving a hand in his general direction before snagging a wrench from the floor behind him and going back to whatever it was he was doing. They’d managed to find everything Souda needed, but just like all the pods he’d already reconfigured, it still felt like most of the modifications were being held together by luck and sheer bloody-minded determination.

 

**+++**

The island was hot, but the beach could get cold at night, the breeze off the ocean, chill. It wasn’t always cold, sometimes it was humid and warm even well into the night, but it could be cold too and tonight was one of those cooler nights. The breeze that stirred his hair caused a chill to shudder down his back.

Komaeda stood at the edge of the water, rocking back and forth, heel to toe and back again, his bare feet leaving a soft, barely there impression in the wet sand that washed away every time the cool water swept up and over his toes and under his heels. His hair blew around his head like dandelion fluff, like seaweed dancing in water currents. “Back again?” He called, his tone mocking, but it was more gently amused than mean for the moment. It was strange how Komaeda seemed able to sound like he was mocking everyone and himself in a thousand different ways.

“Shouldn’t that be my line?” Hajime murmured, stepping up beside him, his own bare feet sinking into the damp sand as water splashed over his toes. “My dream and all.”

“Is it?” Komaeda replied, tilting his head quizzically as he continued to stare out across the dark ocean. “I thought so too, but I’ve been here all day waiting for you.”

“You were waiting for me?”

“Not because you’re _special_ , obviously, just because I thought you might show up anyway so I thought I might as well. It’s just my luck that it’s _you_ here with me after all,” Komaeda turned a bit and Hajime could see the dark stain on his t-shirt where the spear had fallen and punctured his stomach. It was almost black in the shifting moonlight.

“You’re staring, Hinata. Have I got something on my chest?” He asked, soft and wry.

“Why’d you do it that way?”

“Hm?”

He reached out to touch fingers to the dark sleeve of Komaeda’s long coat. He’d never seemed to find it too warm to wear it before. So many of them had been dressed wrong for the season and it had never occurred to any of them that there was anything weird about that. He wondered if things would have been different if they’d noticed the oddities. He shifted his hand lower to brush against the back of Komaeda’s hand, still wet with blood, as he’d known it would be.

“Ah,” Komaeda murmured, shrugging his narrow shoulders. “It isn’t so bad as all that, here, feel.”

He forgot how quick Komaeda could be or maybe he’d never known or maybe he was faster here like this, something, because suddenly Komaeda was right in front of him, the smallest fraction of space between them, taking up his hand and sliding Hajime’s fingers into the pulsing warmth of the wound the spear had left behind in one smooth improbable motion. He flinched at the soft squelching sound that seemed to echo like a gunshot between them and his fingers were warm, wet, pressing into a soft throbbing dampness that his mind kept shying away from, unable to quite come to grips with what he was touching, only that he was touching parts of Komaeda that he shouldn’t be.

Komaeda’s eyelids fluttered a little and the noise he made was somewhere between a groan and a sigh, the kind of noise you sometimes heard in films or through too-thin dorm walls in the middle of the night, usually accompanied by the squeal of protesting bedsprings or the rhythmic thump of a headboard against plaster. The dorms used by the students of the reserve class had always had thin walls and it seemed like he’d spent half his time at Hope’s Peak listening to his classmates' sexual escapades. He couldn’t remember all of that time, it was still foggy and indistinct, but he remembered enough. Enough to know that none of those noises, those grunts and moans and muted screams had ever moved him, had ever punched through him like that one sound slipping free from Komaeda’s lips. Every thought he had about how wrong this was fled from his head in the wake of that sound and he just let Komaeda hold his hand and guide his fingers, sliding them deeper and deeper still.

Komaeda’s barely there smile was both beautiful and terrible as he looked at him from beneath drooping eyelids. His soft grey gaze completely at odds with what they were actually doing and it stole his breath away and he knew he was shaking as he managed a whimpered, “ _Komaeda_.”

He wanted it to sound like a protest or maybe like he was disgusted or anything really that except so… wistful. Like Komaeda was someone he longed for instead of someone who set his nerves on edge… though maybe that was part of it too.

Another pleased quirk of Komaeda’s lips and another sound, this time a whisper of a moan that could have been ‘Hajime’ though Komaeda had never called him that before. His legs were trembling with fear, with want, with a need that was darker and more consuming than either. He licked his lips nervously, inhaling suddenly, his breath stuttering in his lungs, as unsteady and fragile as the rest of him.

When Komaeda finally spoke, real and certain, his voice was bedroom soft and barely a whisper though it seemed like the sound a well-sharpened knife might make as it sliced through flesh, intimate and horrifying all at the same time, with a pain that he might not feel immediately, but that would come in the end just the same. “This isn’t quite how I imagined you inside of me, Hinata, but perhaps this is just right for trash like me, hm?”

 

**+++**

He woke with a startled yelp and Souda’s hand on his shoulder, his face a mask of concern like he was trying hard not to show whatever he actually felt. “You okay? You were mumbling a lot.”

“It’s…” Hajime swallowed hard, ignoring the twist of his stomach and the compulsion to wash his hands instead settling for just wiping them against his pant legs again and again. He was half-hard, aching with it, and the thought made him want to throw up because he could still feel the warmth of Komaeda’s blood on his fingers, the throb of the wound, still hear that terribly pornographic moan echoing in his ears.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” He finally said aloud and it was nothing but lies; he was anything but fine. He was sick. Obviously, there was something desperately wrong with him if these were things he was dreaming about, thinking about, if these were the things he wanted now.

“You, uh, you… you said his name… Komaeda, I mean. Do you… do you wanna talk about it or something?” Souda asked even though his expression clearly conveyed that he’d rather do just about anything else, but the offer was still strangely sincere. He was a good friend and he didn’t deserve Hajime’s lies anymore than he deserved to have to listen to the truth either.

Still, they were going to have to do things differently now, they had to if they wanted to stay sane, if they wanted to fight off the creeping presence of despair. Honesty was probably a good step in that direction. Maybe not about everything, but… maybe about some things, maybe not all the details of things that made him want to hide his face in the ocean and maybe drown there, but enough. If he could let some of it out, maybe the shame over the rest wouldn’t choke him.

He thought about what it had felt like to when his fingers slid inside Komaeda’s body, to be held him there and what it had felt like to have Komaeda push him deeper still. He thought about the obscene noises Komaeda had made and how they had slid through him, lodged within him, deep down in his belly. How he’d wanted him in those moments and how he wanted to hear those noises again even now and he shuddered, “No. Really, really no. But… I… I was dreaming about Komaeda. I dreamed about him before too. When I was in the dark, in the pod, before. It’s… I don’t know. Awful, maybe, but nice too and obviously, really completely fucked up. Definitely fucked up.”

For a moment Souda looked surprised at the confession, but then a tentative smile curved his lips. “I dreamt about, um, Tanaka, before I woke up, but he… he wasn’t like he was on the island or… maybe… I don’t know. I kind of remember how he was before, before the island, a little, and… it was weird. You’d think if I was gonna dream about someone, I’d dream about Miss Sonia or somebody, right? Or maybe even you. I don’t know, anyone else really. Someone I liked or someone I was close to or spent a lot of time with. All Gundham and I did on the island was fight. I mean, we barely even talked to each other at all and then he was gone. I think… maybe we knew each other a little better before. Maybe. I don’t know. But… thinking about him, remembering him, wasn’t totally terrible.” He shrugged, fiddling with the wrench balanced against one bent knee. “So, Komaeda, huh?”

Hajime shrugged tiredly, “Yup. He confuses the hell out me in my dreams too, I guess. I can’t even _imagine_ a version of Komaeda that doesn’t weird me the heck out.”

Souda nodded knowingly, “Can’t say I can blame you on that one. He was kind of a weird guy.”

“Yeah, he kind of is,” Hajime sighed, gesturing towards the pods. “How’s it coming?”

“Slowly, but I’m almost done with Mikan’s pod. Just about as ready at it can be to be taken off the network I just need to fix one last thing and that’ll be the last one done. Then it’s just figuring out actually transporting these things without risking messing them up too bad. We’re lucky they already have wheels on them. The batteries you guys managed to dig up should do the job keeping them operating while we move them, but we’ll need to decide on an order and we’ll only be able to move a couple at a time. So… we’re almost there. Kind of.”

“You look exhausted,” Hajime commented reaching forward to tug on a lock of pink and black hair that had fallen free of the knot at the back of his head.

“Yeah, you’d never know we’d been sleeping for weeks, huh? I guess what they say about it being less about the quantity and more about the quality is totally true,” Souda replied, flopping down to sit beside him and all but falling back onto his elbows. “Think the others will be back soon? I wouldn’t mind getting this started. Sooner we get them moved, the sooner we can all crash.”

“Yeah, they should be anyway. I’ll go check on them, see where everybody’s at, maybe I can help speed things up a little.”

He clamored unsteadily to his feet and shuffled out the door into the humid heat of evening. It didn’t take him long to find the others, they were trudging back down the path carrying backpacks and sleeping bags. The question must have been in his expression, because Fuyuhiko just shot him a ghost of his old smirk, “Kirigiri mentioned that there wasn’t much in the way of supplies at the hospital so we grabbed some food and shit from the store to hold us over for a couple days so we don’t gotta leave unless we want to.”

“Ah, smart,” he replied, scratching at his heavy itchy hair, shuddering and forcing himself to pull his hand back and just ignore it for now. “That was a good idea.”

“It was Akane’s idea,” Sonia commented, her smile bright and tired, he held out his hands and she let him take one of the sleeping bags she was carrying. He took the extra ones Fuyuhiko and Akane had too, holding them bundled together in his arms as they trudged back to the administrative building.

Akane snorted, “I just know a thing or two about what you’ve gotta do to make do, that’s all. Don’t make a big deal about it.”

“How is Kazuichi coming along with the remodel of the pods?” Sonia asked and he wondered when Sonia had started calling him Kuzuichi, but figured that probably wasn’t any of his business unless she decided to make it his business.

“Almost there. We just need to figure out the logistics of actually getting them all over to the hospital and what order we’re going to do it in.”

 

**+++**

The plan, after some discussion between the five of them and then with Naegi and Togami when they showed back up, was to take them over on the ferry two at a time as they’d only actually managed to scrounge up a couple of batteries to run the machines during transport. "I checked and these car batteries have more than enough charge to keep the pods running while we move them to the third island, but I can't monitor more than two at a time and if one of the batteries fails, we're gonna have to switch it out in a hurry because I don't know if they can make it if the power goes out on them. I’m a mechanic, not a doctor, you know?"

"Will you show me how to change out the battery? It would be best if several of us knew how to make the change, yes?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's a really great idea, Miss Sonia." Souda replied, smiling warmly. "I can show you guys how to handle some of the other modifications I made too, just in case something gets knocked lose while we're moving them."

Akane frowned, "Yeah, I'm not great with this kind of stuff, but maybe if you show me where the really sensitive areas are I can avoid messing things up when I'm lifting them."

Souda frowned, shaking his head, "I think you could probably do the hook-ups and stuff too. You shouldn't get down on yourself like that, right? You're way smarter than you give yourself credit for."

Akane looked taken aback for a moment before she suddenly burst out laughing, "I don't believe you're giving me a pep talk. Nekomaru would be so proud of you that he'd start bawling like a baby."

Souda’s smile was sheepish, his face bright red, "Ya think so? I've never really been good with people, just machines."

"Souda Kazuichi! What were you just saying about… getting down on yourself, was it? I believe you might need to heed your own advice." Sonia smiled gently as she reached out to take Souda's oil-stained hand in her own. "Though I will say that it is very fortunate for all of us that you're also a genius with machines as without you we would never be able to do all this."

"Come on, let's get on with it. If you embarrass him any more, his fucking head is going to explode." Fuyuhiko commented, gripping Souda's shoulder firmly and steering him back over to the closest pod. "Start showing us what we need to know. Also, who are we gonna move first and how are we gonna do this?"

"I think we should move Mikan and Komaeda first." Hajime volunteered, his fingers tracing lightly over Mikan’s name where it was written across the top of the pod. It seemed strangely unnecessary to label the pods, but maybe there was a reason in all that paperwork somewhere. He could see her dark silhouette under the plastic surface, the ebb and flow of the heavy liquid within as it flowed around her, over her. He couldn’t quite bring himself to look in Komaeda’s pod. Not with those dreams still so fresh in his mind. "Of everyone, I think they'd be most at risk if Enoshima was able to access the pods. Mikan remembered everything before she… you know. And Komaeda was… he was pretty unstable to begin with."

"Truer fucking words have never been spoken," Fuyuhiko grumbled. "Fine. You wanna move them first, we'll move them first. At least if something goes wrong all we're losing is some extra fucking crazy. You all fine with that?"

Everyone nodded with varying degrees of enthusiasm, though Souda shot Hajime a mildly concerned look. Hajime smiled and shrugged, it wasn’t like he disagreed with the assessment even if Komaeda meant more to him than that. It was his idea to move him first, after all. He was willing to take the risk if it meant getting Komaeda out of this room even just a few minutes sooner.

 

**+++  
DAY TWO  
+++**

Fortunately it had turned out that the hospital on the third island was, in reality, much more of a proper hospital rather than just the clinic with delusions of grandeur it had been in the game. So it was a lot bigger and more readily functional and that made things a lot easier than they probably would have been otherwise. As it was, most of the pods still had to be installed two to a room and a number of the hospital beds needed to be dismantled and removed to make room for them. After a surprisingly short discussion it had been decided that Mikan, Komaeda, Peko, Tanaka and Nekomaru would each be put in the larger hospital rooms that had room enough to accommodate both a hospital bed and a pod as they were the ones unanimously voted to be the most violent or unpredictable if… no… _when_ they woke up. It was better if someone could stay with each of them overnight to monitor them more easily and it was probably safest to keep them isolated from the others… just in case.

And if there were other reasons why some of them wanted to be able to stay with those particular people, no one was cruel enough to point that out.

Even if Togami did roll his eyes and mutter something about having watched the feed and thus being perfectly aware of the social dynamics in play as he passed them on his way back out to the ferry.

Naegi had said something back to him that Hajime hadn’t quite been able to make out, his hip bumping gently against Togami’s as they stepped onto the boat and the look Togami had given him was cold enough to freeze a fire.

“Liken me to these people one more time and I will throw you off this boat and you will swim back to the main island.”

Naegi continued to smile, peaceful and undisturbed as if he received these sort of threats daily which, to be fair, he probably did. “Or I could just wait here until you came back.”

“I would never come back. I would leave you here to starve and I wouldn’t miss you at all,” Togami replied stiffly, snapping at the rest of them to hurry up and get the hell on the boat as he cranked the engine and shifted the boat into drive without bothering to look and see if they’d all actually made it.

He didn’t hear anything else they said to each other over the roar of the engine, but eventually he did see Togami’s hand settle against Naegi’s hip, rucking his shirt up just a bit to play over the black lines of whatever tattoo was branded there. The way Naegi closed his eyes and swayed forward as if that touch were far more intimate than it appeared, before he purposefully looked away out across the ocean, uncomfortable.

He tried and failed not to think about Komaeda and the way he had always seemed to sway towards him when they were together… right up until the day he had learned the truth of what Hajime was, or at least some of the truth at any rate. Komaeda hadn’t seemed so interested after that. Or maybe he’d just been lost inside his own despair after finding out what they all were and it hadn’t had anything to do with him at all. He might never know for sure. It wasn’t as if even if _-when-_ Komaeda woke up he’d ever be able to believe any answer he got even if he did summon up the courage to ask him about it. To be that vulnerable in front of someone who would probably use that display of weakness to cut him to pieces. He wasn’t even really sure why it even mattered so much to him what Komaeda thought.

At the end of the day, there was no denying that after he’d found out that Hinata Hajime was just plain ordinary he’d been casually cruel in a way he’d never been before, as if he’d only ever been interested in the idea of his mysterious talent and with the promise of that gone he hadn’t cared even the smallest bit about what was left behind. As if what was left wasn’t worth even the smallest iota of time or consideration. He’d tried really hard to pretend- even to himself- that as Komaeda blew things up and acted like a total ass on that last day that it was only his actions that hurt, that made him angry, but… that hadn’t been all there was to it.

He looked out over the dark water and he remembered how bright Komaeda’s smile had seemed on that first day and he wondered if he'd known him at all.

 

**+++**

It was the early hours of the morning by the time everyone had been moved into the dusty white patient rooms at the hospital. Everything had been hooked up and had been checked and double-checked for integrity and Souda seemed pretty happy with it. Naegi, Togami and Kirigiri and vanished at some point during the second round of checks indicating that they’d be back in the morning and everyone should try to get some rest. It seemed weird that they should just leave them alone like that, but he supposed they hadn’t really been monitoring them from the start. Maybe he was still expecting the cameras and restrictions of the simulation. It was tough to shake off the feeling of being watched.

Fuyuhiko flopped down on the bed in Peko’s room after the last checks had been done on her pod. “I’m fucking exhausted,” he yawned and stretched, waving half-heartedly to them as they left. “See you fuckers in the morning. Try not to pass out in the halls or anything.”

It wasn’t a totally unfounded concern as they had all been up for almost a day working on getting everything installed and were all beginning to resemble the shambling dead that populated zombie movies. Deciding there was safety in numbers, or at least a lower likelihood of actually falling asleep, they escorted Sonia to Tanaka's room. She had offered them a wane smile before pressing a gentle kiss to all their cheeks before they left. Akane had been flustered by the show of affection and Souda had turned bright red, but he'd managed to stutter out a brief good night before ducking out of the room.

Hajime lingered a moment longer than the others, "You're gonna be okay?"

"Yes, I am quite all right, Hajime. Though I should hope you won't think less of me if you hear me crying during the night."

Hajime chuckled, running a hand over the heavy weight of his matted hair. "I don’t think the walls are quite that thin, but I'd be surprised if all of us didn't do more than our fair share of crying tonight. If you want company, feel free to stop by my room anytime."

"I shall," Sonia replied, her lips warm against his cheek once more before she turned away to face the hospital bed. "Thank you for being my friend, Hinata Hajime."

"And thank you for being mine, Sonia Nevermind."

He slipped out into the hallway to find Souda leaning against the wall beside the room, frowning slightly. "Hey, you okay?" He asked, looking around to find that Akane appeared to have wandered off by herself.

Souda shrugged listlessly, "Yeah, I mean, it's kind of been a pretty good day, all things considered. I just got kissed by a princess and I somehow managed to fix it so we got everyone moved over here and away from that damn room without killing anyone. Almost good enough to balance out the fact that we just found out we all spent some quality time as crazy murder fiends, you know?"

Hajime sighed, slinging an arm across Souda's shoulders and steering him down the hallway towards the rooms they hadn't yet done a final check on. "Yeah, it's hard to balance that out. Did you know that someone thought it was a really good idea to operate on my brain and turn me into some kind of psychotic super genius?"

"You don't say."

"True story. I'm going to have nightmares about it forever, all of it. Yesterday was really just the worst."

"Right?"

"Except yesterday was also the day I realized I had friends. That I have people now who would miss me if I was gone, who would find me if I got lost, who will keep the despair over the things I've done and the things that were done to me from eating me alive. So, you know, it wasn't all bad."

"Did you mean what you said to Sonia about the crying?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure the only reason I haven't really freaked out yet is we've been too busy. I cried earlier in front of Togami, which was awful, and I’m probably going to start crying again the second I’m alone. I'm really not actually holding it together very well. Also, if you want to stop by, you're welcome to as well. You're my friend, you're always welcome."

"You're such a sap," Souda commented, but the soft smile curving his lips eased any sting the words might have had.

"Yeah, I guess I am. I'm pretty sure I'm gonna make the same offer to Akane and she's going to take it all wrong or beat me up. Maybe even both."

"Yeah, that seems pretty likely. Though Kazuryuu will just kill you."

"Nope, I get a pass with him. He knows that he's always welcome without my having to say it."

"Seriously? When the hell did you and Kazuryuu get so close?"

"We spent a lot of time together after he got out of the hospital. He's a really great guy, you both are. I wish we'd all been able to get to know each other before things went to hell. Become friends before Enoshima had a chance to turn us all inside out. Things probably would have been a lot different."

"Yeah, probably. Hey, I’m gonna call you Hajime from now on, okay? I mean… we’ve been through a lot so I thought maybe…”

Hajime smiled, bumping Souda… no… Kazuichi’s shoulder with his own, “Okay, Kazuichi, that’d be good.”

Kazuichi smiled brightly, “Yeah. It’d definitely have been different if we had friends to depend on. Though maybe not so much for Komaeda. He was pretty crazy to begin with. I mean, obviously, he didn't even need much motivation to start killing people when he _didn’t_ remember anything."

"I don't know. He was… he was really nice at first and even later… I don't think we all would have made it through without him even if he did do a lot of really messed up things. I just never really understood him. He isn't an easy person to know."

"Do you really think we'll actually be able to help him or Mikan? I mean, they're both so…."

"I hope so. I don't think they're bad people, not really. I don't think she would have bothered with us the way she did if any of us were bad people deep down. I just think they were lonely and life was particularly rough on them. We won't know until we try, but I really hope we'll be able to help them and everyone."

"Yeah, I guess I do too." Kazuichi replied, "That doesn't mean I'm looking forward to sleeping in a room with them. You really don't mind taking Komaeda’s room? I mean, I know you’re… you know."

Hajime smiled and it felt strained and brittle, "Yeah, but I think I’d be dreaming about him no matter how close or far away from him I was. It’s fine. I don’t really mind."

"Cool. Let's get the rest of these pods checked so we can get to the crying ourselves to sleep thing."

"You bet."

 

**+++**

After he left Souda at Mikan’s room, but before he retired to Komaeda's room for the night, he made a point of digging through the supply room until he came up with a pair of scissors he could use to chop off some of the hair. He was absolutely certain that there was no way in hell he'd manage to sleep with all that hair surrounding him, pressing against him, reminding him of everything he had been and might be again.

Which was how he ended up standing in front of a small mirror in the washroom, hacking away at the thick tangles and cursing softly when he pulled the hair too hard or accidentally grazed his weirdly over-sensitive skin with the scissors.

There was a bang on the door and Akane's voice rang out from the other side, "Hey, Hajime… you doing okay in there? You need me to get you a laxative or something?"

"No, but if you want to come give me a hand with these scissors, I'd be grateful."

"What the hell are you doing with scissors?" Akane replied, shoving the door open and snickering a little when she saw him. "Right, I keep forgetting you have all that crazy gross hair. It's like every time I'm not looking right at you I keep picturing you how you were, you know? It's hard to get used to the changes."

"Yeah," Hajime replied, all too aware of the way her clothes hung so loose on a frame so obviously malnourished. "You mind giving me a hand?"

"Yeah, sure, I used to cut my brothers' hair all the time." She was smiling as she took the scissors from him and turned him back around to face the mirror. "It's crazy how thick it is. We all really need to shower tomorrow. We stink."

"Yeah, we really do. I mean, when you think about it we haven't showered for a couple of weeks. Even if that gunk in the pods was self-cleaning, I still feel filthy."

"Right? And then you've got all this hair and it's super gross. I mean, not like mine or Sonia's is that much better at this point. I'm probably just gonna chop mine off too. How short do you want it?"

"Just get it above my shoulders and I'm good. I can worry about style and how short I actually want it once I've washed it a few hundred times."

"Sounds good. Keep still, I'll be done in a second."

"Sure. You're gonna sleep in Nekomaru's room, right?"

"Yeah, I'm really the only one who would stand a chance of stopping him if he decided to go all-out on the hospital when he woke up. You gonna sleep in with Komaeda?"

"Yeah."

"I figured. You guys were pretty tight before he started blowing stuff up, I thought you'd probably want to stay close to him."

"I don't know about that, but I think he'll probably at least hesitate before he tries to kill me again. Probably."

"Nah, I don't think you've got anything to worry about. He was kind of a weasel, but the only person he ever really killed was himself. There. How's that?"

"It's good, Thanks, Akane, I really appreciate the help." Hajime threaded his fingers into his freshly shortened hair. It still felt disgusting, but it was nice to have the most of the weight of it gone at least. The long tendrils scattered between them across the bathroom floor. It looked like they’d murdered a dirty mop.

"No problem. I'm glad I could help you out. Wanna come help me find a vending machine? There was no junk food at the store and I'm starving. Literally. I'm pretty sure the jackass that I was never actually ate anything while she was part of Ultimate Despair. Seriously, what the hell was I even thinking that I forgot how important food was?"

"I have a feeling we're all gonna spend years asking ourselves pretty much that same question." Hajime sighed, stretching before following Akane out of the bathroom. "I think I remember seeing one on the first floor."

"Awesome. Let's go check it out."

"Do you have any change?"

"Hell no, I'm just gonna bust it open."

"…yeah, that'll probably work."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm, obviously, moving forward with the idea that Jabberwocky Island wasn't built specifically to hold them and was instead a resort area created during the early years of The Tragedy that was infected with the violence when the event was at its peak and was only recovered and repurposed later as somewhere to keep them and help them heal. 
> 
> Also, I'm rolling with the idea that while much of the Togami family is dead and much of their fortune was decimated or lost in The Tragedy, some of their assets remained and much of Byakuya's personal fortune survived as well. So, basically, he isn't as well off as he was before, but he's got enough money to foot the bill and keep them operating independent of the Future Foundation for quite some time without feeling the pinch if necessary. 
> 
> I'm also operating under the assumption that the reason Naegi and the rest are able to get away with flying in the face of the Future Foundation the way they have is primarily because they're all internationally known because of Junko's broadcast as symbols of hope. So, as a result, public opinion sways dramatically with their favor which is a factor that helps give Naegi the clout to negotiate with them and put them off after he and the others basically stole the remnants of Ultimate Despair out from under the organization.
> 
> Also, for the curious who want confirmation, Hajime is absolutely wearing Akane's pants. Also, yes, there were absolutely more pants and shirts available in the administrative building. Akane did not actually _have_ to give Hajime hers and she was aware of this fact since she got dressed there. She could have literally taken ten steps to the right and grabbed him a whole outfit- including underwear- out of a drawer, but she's Akane and she tends to go with the first solution that pops into her head. Also, though I don't mention it in story as it wasn't particularly important to anything that happened after, Sonia made her put a new pair of pants on and also supplied Hajime with a shirt before they all left to search for the stuff Kazuichi needed to fix up the pods. She's sensible that way.
> 
> Also, I'm sure you've noticed I don't use honorifics. I don't think they always come off as a bit silly in English language fanfics for Japanese properties, often they work quite well, but I tend to *feel* silly using them, so I kind of avoid them like the plague unless they're essential, there's no other way to convey the meaning or they're used as a part of a nickname. I do, however, use last names until there is an acknowledged level of intimacy that allows for the use of first names which is why Souda is Souda through most of this chapter and Fuyuhiko is Fuyuhiko. I'm assuming that while Hajime spent a lot of time with each of them, he spent more time and was closer to some versus others.
> 
> As to why Naegi is dressed differently than the other two. He was the one who started the program and had initially been monitoring their progress alongside Alter Ego. He's been in that room pretty much as long as they have. Server rooms can get hot as hell and of the three of them he's the most practical and thus only wears the suit when he's working and representing the Future Foundation (otherwise known as when Kyouko and Byakuya make him).


	3. Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a late night turns into an early morning, Hajime can't catch a break, and Sonia tells a story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the chapter where this story starts to really earn its M rating. It’s downhill from here, folks, until it isn’t. Please note the warning and rating changes where applicable.

_“Maybe ever’body in the whole damn world is scared of each other.”_  
― John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men

**DAY TWO**  
-continued-  
**+++**

The room was quiet, almost unnervingly so, with just the soft hum and glow of the pod to cut through the darkness and the silence. He sat on the edge of the hospital bed, his hands gripping the blanket as he stared across the room at that pod, at the dark shadow of a person within it. Here in the dark, alone with only his thoughts, he couldn’t help dwelling on his dreams. On the sound of Komaeda’s voice as he spoke, as he moaned, as he continued to make his life more difficult just by virtue of his existing just as he always had. It was funny how sitting in this quiet room made him glad for that. He wished he would just wake up. It would be easier if he were awake, he could take his frustrations out on the real thing.

Not that he ever, ever, ever wanted the genuine article to know he’d been dreaming about him, much less _what_ he’d been dreaming about him. Komaeda would never let it go, he’d use it to justify every nasty thing he ever said about either of them. And he’d want to argue, of course he would, but then he’d remember the way Komaeda’s voice had broken in his mind across that moan and he wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Or maybe Komaeda would use it to breach the divide between them, to bridge that gap with intimacy that had only existed in dreams, would use that knowledge to sidle up close and whisper filthy things in his ear and maybe he’d like it. Maybe they’d finish whatever they’d half started on the island and it would be frightening and exhilarating and…

He shifted, uncomfortable, realizing belated that he’d been thinking too much and his body had started reacting to his thoughts, to the half-formed image of Komaeda whispering in his ear, good hand braced against his hip. Not the Komaeda he’d known on the island, but the version of Komaeda as he’d been in that brief vision he’d seen near the end of their time in the machine. A little older, a little taller, more man than boy, his hair a little wilder and longer than it had been before, but otherwise just the same if you left out the bad hand. He shook his head hard as if that might be enough to banish the image from his mind. 

It wasn’t, of course. 

He adjusted himself irritably, wincing as pleasure twinged through him even at that light touch. What the heck was wrong with him? He couldn’t imagine why every little damn thing that happened was suddenly turning him on. It wasn’t even like he’d been super interested in sex before. Sure, when he was going through puberty, he’d probably spent a fair amount of time banging away at it, but those memories were distant, foreign almost, buried beneath all that had come afterwards. 

At Hope’s Peak, at least while he’d been in the reserve course, he’d rarely touched himself at all, too caught up in the stress of not being good enough. He’d tried once or twice, but more often than not all he’d managed was to chaff himself raw and fall asleep sobbing into his pillow while the moans of his seemingly carefree neighbors echoed around him. Another failure for the pile. He was sure, looking back, that they’d all probably just had different ways of dealing with the stresses of the reserve program. That they’d all been freaked out and stressed just the same as he had. It had seemed like the rest had had an easier time, had been less dedicated to Hope’s Peak, to success, to all those ideals, but… that probably wasn’t fair or true. He'd probably just never noticed because he'd been too caught up in his own problems. He remembered being sick, often, spending a lot of time on his knees in his bathroom at night as the stress turned his stomach inside out. He’d hidden it pretty well, buried it by studying harder and longer than anyone else, by being the first to classes or tests, by being the first to volunteer for the trial program. 

He’d been so honored when they’d told him he was chosen. It had seemed like all his hard work, his devotion, all that stress and sickness were worth it, so worth it. He was going to be special, he was going to become their great hope and he couldn’t think of anything better than that. After all, what good had Hinata Hajime ever been to anyone anyway? He’d never been smart enough or good enough or special enough so if the best he could ever be was the ground in which they were planting and growing the seed of hope that would become Kamukura Izuru that was what he wanted. At last he would finally be good enough, even if he wasn’t quite himself anymore.

He hadn’t understood at all really. 

He hadn’t understood so many things.

After that, everything from the last few years was a blur or just vague, ghostly images that he couldn’t quite touch, probably locked away with Izuru in the back of his head somewhere, lurking. He remembered the pain of the surgeries, the memory wipes, but even that felt less like something that had happened to him and more like something he’d seen in a film and after a certain point there was only the haze. So, he had no way of knowing what Izuru had been up to in the years between. No way of knowing if he’d been having sex with everything that moved. And that was a terrifying thought, because would he have cared enough to use protection? To avoid diseases? Would he have bothered to be careful or would that have been too boring? 

Hajime shivered, crossing his arms over his stomach protectively and leaning down to put his head between his knees, breathing slowly so he didn’t just throw up all that stale junk food he’d eaten with Akane all over the floor. They’d probably have told him if he had something really nasty, wouldn’t they? Even if just to make sure he didn’t pass it to anyone? Yeah, they’d probably done a health work-up before they put them in the pods. It was the only way to make sure they gave them what they needed while they were under. Maybe. Probably. Still, that didn’t mean he didn’t have half dozen kids running around out there with his unruly hair and some stranger’s eyes. He could be a father and he’d never know it. He’d never know for sure unless Izuru’s memories came back to him and he wasn’t sure if he could deal with that. He didn’t want to know and he couldn’t stand not knowing all at the same time. Either option was terrifying in its own way. 

Suddenly being a little fucked up about Komaeda didn’t seem quite so awful. 

Maybe he’d get lucky and find out that Izuru had found sex as boring as he seemed to find everything. That would be the best thing. Then he didn’t even have to think about it or wonder about it, he could just assume he hadn’t gotten off since he was in junior high and that was messing with his body chemistry or something. Sperm count was too high or something. Unless what they’d done on the island had been….

While he’d been on the island, in the game, he hadn’t thought much about sex except in passing. He’d jerked off a few times, hurried and almost panicked, but not much more than that. Just stress relief, really, for an incredibly tense situation. Funny that the stress of a killing game hadn’t broken him to pieces like the stress of Hope’s Peak had. Hadn’t made it impossible to get outside his own head long enough to actually get himself off. Apparently he just dealt better with murder related stress. Or something. At least he’d never felt like he wasn’t good enough on the island. In a lot of ways, always being able to find his way to the truth had actually been the best confidence boost in the world. Which was in turn both sad and kind horrifying all things considered.

Still, with all those cameras around, he’d been too self-conscious to do anything more than just that. Not that he would have anyway, just… there’d never been any inclination with everything that was going on. Even if he had thought a little too much about Chiaki in her bathing suit and how nice she was, how cute she looked when she was sleeping. Or how confusing Komaeda was, how he would lean close and smell so amazing and then say just the most horrifying, awful things. How those things would stick with him afterwards and echo in his brain at night and he’d wonder how he’d ever thought he could like, could understand, someone that was so extraordinarily fucked up.

He stood up, irritated and paced across the room to the pod, running his hand over the top of the plastic casing. It was warm to the touch, probably from the liquid inside, which Kazuichi had explained served a lot of different vital purposes, but the warmth specifically was because it was calibrated to regulate their body temperatures. There were a ton of numbers on the side of the thing and though Kazuichi had explained most of them, he’d only caught about half of them and he wasn’t even sure he had all of _those_ straight and correct. Acidity levels and heart rate and brain activity and BPM… though Kazuichi hadn’t been all that clear on how someone could breathe in that gunk either, just that that was what the number was. That all these numbers and graphs and beeping things were all he had to tell him that Komaeda was in this box. That he was still alive and he didn’t even understand half of what it meant. And even if he did, there was nothing he could do to make it better, make him better. 

He’d take the Komaeda who made him feel terrible about himself and guilty and awful over this sleeping Komaeda any day. He wanted a chance to yell him for being such an asshole, for killing Chiaki, for _everything_. 

And then maybe…

Maybe.

He thought about walking back downstairs to where he and Akane had finally found the snack vending machine in a room that had probably been a break room judging by the dust-covered couch and microwave. There’d been an old coffee machine in there so there was probably some stale coffee in the cupboards somewhere. He could loiter around down there for a while, but eventually he’d still have to come back here. Eventually he’d still have to lay down in that cold bed and go to sleep with the soft hum and occasional beep of the pod for company. 

He was too tired not to sleep and too weak to do it anywhere else, they’d all agreed to stay in these rooms. And… he wanted to be here. Wanted to be close to him. Just as badly as he wanted to be in the break room brewing that stale coffee. Or out on the beach listening to the waves break against the shore, just anywhere else at all really. He wanted to be as close to him as possible and as far away as possible all at the same time, every moment. 

“Sorry,” he murmured, laying a hand against the green glowing lid of the pod against the shadowed form beneath it. “It’s not like I want to dream about you or anything, but… sorry anyway. Hurry and wake up, okay? I… just hurry and wake up.” He felt stupid talking to the pod. It might have been easier if he could see him, touch him, take his hand or whatever; as it was he couldn’t even see him so he felt like an idiot talking to a plastic coffin like it was a person. Though, then again, it might have been too creepy if he’d been able to see him. To see Enoshima’s hand on his wrist, to be able to touch him whenever he wanted… yeah, that would definitely be worse. 

“Sorry,” he muttered again, patting the top of the box. Maybe he’d get better with practice or it would get easier or something. 

Maybe. 

 

**+++**

He opened his eyes to find himself on his knees in one of the hotel cabins as something thick and wet and salty sour splattered across his face, his lips, and into his mouth. He gagged at the unexpected taste and again as he realized exactly what it was, wiping frantically at his mouth even as another spurt hit his cheek.

“Huh. That’s unexpected.” Komaeda’s voice commented, sounding vaguely surprised and a little short of breath but generally unmoved by Hajime’s sudden appearance. He didn’t sound happy or annoyed or anything else he was used to hearing from Komaeda. “It’s like I made you appear by coming. That’s a funny sort of thing.”

He didn’t sound like he actually thought it was all that funny. He didn’t sound like he thought it was much of anything, his voice was bland, almost bored like he’d been watching paint dry instead of jerking off.

Hajime glared up at him, still wiping at his face irritably, feeling more than a little sick. He gagged and spat the mouthful he’d ended up with onto the floor beside him, grimacing at the glob that splattered across the wood. Komaeda was sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, his head bowed so Hajime couldn't actually see his expression at all through the cloud of pale hair. “This is a little much, Komaeda.”

“Sure, I can see that,” he replied conversationally, nodding, his fingers still working loosely over himself… which Hajime was very pointedly not looking at and only happened to see out of the corner of his eye and that movement was difficult to mistake for anything else. “No one likes that in their eye, do they?”

“You didn’t get it in my eye,” Hajime grumbled as if that distinction were of any importance in the grand scheme of things when you were covered in someone else’s spunk. 

“Oh? That’s too bad. That would have been funny too.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” 

“So many things,” Komaeda replied, finally raising his head to meet Hajime’s disgruntled gaze, the mild hint of a smile on his lips marking the first hint of actual emotion he’d seen or heard from him so far. 

“Truer words,” Hajime sighed, wiping his now sticky hands against his pants. It didn’t really help. His hands were still sticky and now his pants were kind of gross too. He looked around for a towel or something and frowned as his gaze settled on the half-full shelf of Monokuma figures. “Is this my _room_? Why the hell were you doing _that_ in my room?”

Komaeda shrugged, the brief flicker of amusement gone as if it had never been there at all, his expression so bland and uninterested that they might as well be talking about the weather. “You weren’t using it. Besides, it seemed only fair. You stuck your fingers inside me and disappeared before we could do anything interesting. I wanted to jerk off and this place still smells a little like you. Or at least I think it does. Could just be one of those things.”

“What the hell, Komaeda?” Hajime yelped. He knew his face was bright red with embarrassment, he could feel the heat blazing in his cheeks hot as a four-alarm fire. “And I did _not_ stick my fingers inside you! _You_ stuck my fingers inside you.”

“Semantics.” He shrugged again before scooting back to lean back against the wall, pale legs still spread wide. Hajime couldn’t help but notice that he’d only bothered to strip off his pants and underwear, he was still wearing his parka like he couldn’t be bothered to shed it and he’d just rucked his shirt up, it was still bunched up high enough that Hajime could see his belly button, a shallow indent of shadow in all that pale, pale skin. At least he couldn’t see the gapping chest wound, for the moment at least, with the shirt crumpled across his stomach the way it was. That would have been too much but, as it was, he could see the deep wounds Komaeda had made in his thighs and the puncture in his hand. He’d at least covered his dominant hand with a bandage though- as Hajime watched- he loosened the bandage and unraveled it, discarding it on the bed beside him. He must have noticed the direction of Hajime’s gaze because he shrugged again. The shrugging was beginning to seem like some sort of involuntary twitch. “It’s rough enough doing it with the bandages, it’d be rougher rubbing against an open wound though, probably. If you want, you can whip your dick out and we can find out together?”

“God, no, fuck, gross, Komaeda.”

“Your loss,” Komaeda replied, sitting up a little straighter and Hajime was grateful when he smoothed down the front of his shirt so that it fell down into his lap to cover him, but also disconcerted as the falling hem of the t-shirt revealed the gaping bloody hole the spear had left in the shirt and the chest beneath. 

“Why did you do it that way?”

“Why do you keep asking that? You know why, don’t you?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t ask.”

“Ah, I see, I'll play. Well, let's see, I suppose it was punishment. Anything that brings such great despair into the world deserves to be punished, don’t you think?”

“You didn’t deserve that, it wasn’t your fault,” Hajime answered and it was as automatic as breathing and the same answer he’d have given to any of them. Because Togami had been right, though they had each played a part in all that had happened, it was Enoshima who made it possible, who set them on their paths. At least that's what he wanted to believe. “Komaeda, it wasn’t-“

And, of course, Komaeda was staring at him as if he were stupid or at least functionally deficient in some vital way. When he spoke, his voice still seemed vaguely disconnected, as if he were there, but part of him, the part that was anger and humor and manic glee, just... wasn’t. “Really? _That’s_ what you’re going with? _It wasn’t your fault, Komaeda?_ That’s a poor argument. Trash like Komaeda Nagito never deserved to live in the world because all he’s ever done is inspire despair in himself, in others. His luck is a curse and a constant and he is the lowest of the low and if his death could bring the slightest flicker of hope than that might make his life worthwhile because at least then it would have served a purpose. That’s the truth, _Hinata_. The indisputable truth.”

“No, it really isn’t,” Hajime replied, setting his hands against Komaeda’s bare shins, over the red marks there that had probably been caused by the ropes he’d tied around himself, there were darker, rougher red marks on his wrists as well. He probably struggled at the end, even if he didn’t intend to, even if that torturous death was what he chose… it would have been hard not to struggle against the pain, alone in the dark. He looked up into Komaeda’s cool, superior face. He wasn’t sure why it was suddenly so important to him that Komaeda understand. “We all did things, bad things, but it was Enoshima who made us that way. It wasn’t your fault, okay?”

“…Enoshima?” Komaeda asked his voice soft and his eyes losing focus. “Who… what is… I don’t…” He raised one wounded hand to touch against his forehead, gently, puzzled. “Why does that name sound so familiar? I don’t… I don’t….”

“Komaeda?”

Komaeda blinked at him once, twice, and then the puzzlement faded, replaced by a wry smile, “I see. Yes, I remember now. Enoshima Junko, she’s famous. Sure. Why wouldn’t a model be to blame for all the despair we caused? Seems reasonable. It’s a nice joke.”

“It’s not a joke. I… god, _why_ am I even arguing with you about this?”

“Why indeed? Seems hopeless, right?”

“Stop it. You’re just the worst. And why don’t you just change your clothes or something? I mean, even if you’re stuck with the wounds, are you really stuck with the clothes too?”

Komaeda laughed suddenly, somewhere between a giggle and a sob, but he slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the vaguely hysterical sound. 

Unsure, what else to do Hajime just waited expectantly for Komaeda to pull it back together and answer the question or at least tell him what the joke was this time.

“You’re going to make me say it?” Komaeda commented finally, his expression carefully blank. “I _can’t_. These are the only clothes there are.”

Maybe his imagination was just so horrendously bad that he was only capable of picturing Komaeda wearing this one outfit. Only one way to find out. “Here,” he stripped off the shirt he was wearing, unsurprised to find it was the white dress shirt from the game rather than the black t-shirt he’d fallen asleep in. Because, of course it was, his brain was horrendous _and_ twisted _and_ a glutton for punishment apparently. 

“What makes you think I would want that?” Komaeda asked, his voice cold and remote again.

“Just put it on, okay?” He grumbled, shivering a little as he fumbled over the buttons and finally shrugged the shirt off and offered it to Komaeda. 

Komaeda stared at him for a long moment, but finally, slowly, sat up and shrugged out of his parka. He pulled the t-shirt off over his head, tossing it aside, and Hajime politely averted his eyes from the gaping chest wound, from the too-thin, too-pale nakedness of Komaeda’s body now that he was stripped totally bare. His face and neck felt warm again, but it was more the warmth of mild sunburns, strange and almost pleasant. He shook the shirt at him when Komaeda didn’t reach out to grab it immediately.

“You’re such a hopeless _virgin_ , _Hinata_ ,” Komaeda murmured, taking the shirt finally and slipping it over his shoulders. He did up the bottom two buttons before glancing back over at Hajime, toying with the third. “You sure you don’t want to give it another shot?”

“Shut up. I’m not sticking anything in you, Komaeda.” Because it wasn’t hard to guess what he was referring to. 

“Really? You seemed pretty into it last time.” 

And the mild burn became uncomfortably hot, as he gapped and stuttered a response, “I… I… I didn’t… you just stuck my fingers in your chest, I wasn’t…” 

“You weren’t turned on by it?”

“No!”

“Liar,” Komaeda looked so damn smug it made Hajime kind of want to punch him. Yes, that was a pretty familiar feeling as well. “I might be a little off, but my eyes work just fine. I could see how you looked at me. You _never_ looked at me that way, _before_ , but you did then. You looked at me the way Hanamura looked at the girls. You looked at me like you wanted to eat me.”

“I…” And it was probably true. That was always the worst thing about Komaeda: how rarely he actually lied. Why bother to lie, after all, when an uncomfortable truth will do? So, it was probably true, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Didn’t want to admit how much he’d wanted him in that moment. Because that would mean admitting to Komaeda and himself that nothing they’d been doing had been enough to turn him off. Or that maybe that that was what had turned him on in the first place and just… no. “It wasn’t that. I mean it… it wasn’t _that_.”

“Oh, what was it then?” Komaeda inquired, leaning forward a little and he knew that expression. It was the expression Komaeda wore when he’d found a weak point to exploit. 

“Nothing,” he replied immediately, a knee-jerk reaction.

“Nothing?” Komaeda leaned all the way forward, getting as close to Hajime as he could without scooting forward. Hajime was suddenly very aware that he didn’t have a shirt on at all anymore and that Komaeda hadn’t ever bothered to actually finish buttoning the shirt he now wore so it gaped open obscenely. Hajime could see down the long pale line of him, see the hard peaks of his nipples, the red wound that made him feel vaguely ill, the press of his ribs against his skin and the subtle swell of his belly. His stomach flip-flopped uneasily with the knowledge of the one thing he couldn’t quite see from this angle. Somehow peering at Komaeda through the gap in that shirt felt dirtier than sneaking a glance at him when he’d just been naked. 

“It was that sound,” he confessed though he hadn’t really meant to say that out loud or at all. “You made this sound like…”

“Do you want to see if I’ll make it again?”

“No, I… of course, I don’t,” he managed, swallowing hard, his throat suddenly bone-dry. Because part of him desperately wanted to hear that sound again, to know what might have happened if Souda hadn’t shaken him awake when he did. Part of him wanted to dive headfirst down that rabbit hole and follow it to its inevitable conclusion, consequences be damned. 

Part of him was obviously _deranged_.

Komaeda fell back away from him, leaning against the wall, a cruel smile playing across his lips and Hajime felt the butterflies in his stomach turn to slugs; an awful feeling of dread, cold and heavy and slimy, lodged in the pit of his stomach. Komaeda lifted a hand slowly, languorously from his side, placing his fingers against the edge of the wound framed by his borrowed shirt. “Listen closely, Hinata, you’re the only fair judge after all.”

“What are you doing, Komaeda?” He whispered, but he already knew the answer even as his fingers plunged into that gruesome wound. 

The world seemed to stutter to a stop around him and the sound that tore itself from Komaeda’s throat was something between a scream and a sob and there was nothing of desire in it, only pain. Hajime was up off the floor and flinging himself onto the bed in an instant, fumbling and pulling his bloody hand out and away from the wound as Komaeda panted, weak little wounded cries that painted the air between them with agony. 

“It didn’t hurt when it was you. It felt good when it was you,” Komaeda confessed, shivering, his words a jumble and his voice soft as a whisper between them. “I just want to… I just want, I don’t… I don’t _understand_ how this game is played.”

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Hajime murmured, petting Komaeda’s soft pale hair with fingers were sticky to begin with and were now covered in blood as well. His heart was in his throat and he was only half listening to what Komaeda was saying, still too freaked out by the way he’d cried out. He was going to have nightmares about that sound. Well… more nightmares, anyway. Regardless, that sound was going to haunt him, waking or sleeping.

“It’s not,” Komaeda hissed, his voice cool and almost even once again as the pain presumably faded and he got himself under control once again. He sounded vaguely disgusted, but Hajime couldn’t be sure if that disgust was for either of them or both. He didn’t pull away though, just pressed his face against Hajime’s chest and let him continue to run vaguely panicked hands over his hair. His voice when he spoke again was muffled and low, like he was speaking to himself more than Hajime. “You make me sick. Your lies make me sick. Why won’t you just do what I want you to do? What you want to do? You’re _here_ , aren’t you? Why are you even here if you’re not going to be what I want? If you’re here to make me feel good than do it. If you’re here to hurt me than _hurt me_. What are you even here for if I have to do all the work?” 

“I don’t-“

“Liar, stop lying, just stop _lying_ to me, don’t you think I know what I want? I _know_ what I want,” Komaeda rasped, short, blunt nails scrapping over Hajime’s bare shoulders, over his back, and it hurt, but it also burned through him, real and wanted. Heat pooled in his limbs, between his legs, dragged a stuttering moan from his lips. The world seemed to spin around him and he closed his eyes to keep it at bay. “Yes, like that,” he groaned, his voice still muffled as he pressed against Hajime's chest, raising one trembling hand to run a thumb over one nipple, already painfully tight. " _That’s_ what I want to hear from you. I’m tired of arguing with myself. It’s _boring_. It’s such a hopeless thing to argue with oneself. You can never really win.”

“I don’t understand anything you’re saying,” Hajime panted as those blunt fingernails scored his chest so hard that he was pretty sure that if he wasn’t bleeding it was only because this was a dream. “I don’t understand you at all,” he rasped, blinking his eyes open and trying to focus past the desire to find a way to climb inside Komaeda and never come back out again.

“You never did,” Komaeda replied, leaning back to offer Hajime a smile that was bitter as it his voice was caustic. “Nothing new there. Just touch me, _Hinata_. Just touch me. Don’t you want to hear me moan for you again?”

And he did, help him, he did. It was all he could think of and before he’d made a conscious decision about it, the world shifted around him and their positions were almost reversed. He was just suddenly kneeling on the bed over Komaeda, inches away, straddling his lap and Komaeda had his back to the wall again. That was the way of dreams sometimes, he was discovering, or maybe it was something he’d always known. Perhaps, he’d just needed reminding that you didn’t so much go places as you just showed up there sometimes in dreams. So there was no pushing Komaeda back against the wall, no slow crawl across the bed after him, no time to think and rethink what he was doing, just suddenly there kneeling over him with his hand resting against Komaeda’s chest, tucked just inside the shirt, framing that bloody reminder of how sick, how depraved they both could be. 

“Go ahead,” Komaeda murmured, watching him with cool, assessing eyes. A gaze that spoke of challenges and dares, the same look he’d always had in trials when he wanted Hajime to speak against him, to rise to the occasion, to push through his lies or truths and find the hope he thought would come from all those terrible things. As if he hadn’t stuck his own fingers in that wound and screamed bloody murder two minutes ago. As if none of that had happened at all. “I want you to.”

“Well, _I_ don’t want me to,” Hajime whispered, but it sounded weak even in his own ears. A mewling, whining sound in the dark without any real weight or desire behind it, a token protest at best. His thighs were shaking, quivering with the effort of kneeling over Komaeda, of not touching him. His stomach roiled, queasy and uncertain, but it was difficult to tell if it was disgust or nerves or something else entirely. 

“Just a little,” his voice was gently encouraging, coaxing. His hands settling over Hajime’s trembling thighs, rubbing gently over the length of them from knee to hip and back again. “I know I’m the lowest of the low and trash such as I shouldn’t be asking favors, but it wouldn’t hurt just to touch it a little, would it? Just at the edge, just for a moment. Please?”

Wet, wet, wet and warm and just a fingertip, just tracing around the ragged, inner edge and Komaeda makes this noise. It’s not quite the same noise as before, as the first time, but in some ways it’s better. Pained, but thick with need and Hajime is diving forward to catch that noise on his tongue, to lick the echoes of that sound from the inside of Komaeda’s mouth as it opens for him, hungry and wanting, and he feels his fingers slip into that terrible, wet, pulsing heat and he tells himself it’s an accident even as he devours the sounds Komaeda makes. Even as he presses closer, aching, hungry, sucking hard at Komaeda’s tongue, licking frantically across his teeth and the inside of his cheeks and as far down his throat as he can manage even though their teeth cut and tear against their lips painfully and he can taste the sharp bitter of copper and it’s all too much and not nearly enough. 

He draws back just enough to attack Komaeda’s chin, his cheek, to nip at his earlobe and lick down his throat searching for new tastes, the salt of sweat and the sour tang of sunscreen. For new sounds like the rasp and curse he hears as he bites at the juncture of neck and shoulder, worrying it with his teeth as Komaeda’s cries echo through the room along with yes and more and deeper and harder and Hinata, oh, Hinata, _please_. He knows, distantly, that his fingers are still inside him, deep and lingering in that throbbing, ghastly warmth and he can’t bring himself to care, not with Komaeda sobbing out his name and pawing clumsily at the front of his pants and it’s almost enough. 

Almost. 

Nearly there. 

He’s so close to the edge and tipping over into the abyss beyond is all he cares about. If he can just… if he can just _get there_ then maybe it will burn this terrible hunger out of his system. Release him and absolve him and maybe he’ll stop dreaming about these things. So he thrusts his hips into Komaeda’s frantic touches and kisses him again, sucking his tongue into his mouth and licking and suckling and biting at it. His free hand slides between them, beneath Komaeda’s borrowed shirt, over the curve of his hip….

And then the world shifts around him and Komaeda’s fingers are suddenly in his hair, yanking so hard he sees starbursts, black and white behind his eyelids, and he’s pretty sure he screams or at least cries out, pretty sure he lost more than a little hair to that grip as he’s wrenched back. And it should be nothing but pain, but it isn’t. It _isn’t_. And Komaeda uses his distraction to force him back, away.

His knees hit the floor hard, banging painfully against the hardwoods, hands scrambling for purchase against the bed; one hand dark with blood, the other clean. He looked up, tears blurring his vision as Komaeda used that grip on his hair like a handle to steer him, his expression arctic cold. As cold as it had been after, when Komaeda had known there was nothing special about him at all. As remote as an iceberg, as an island in an uncharted sea, so far away from him that he couldn’t begin to fathom the distance. As if nothing they’d been doing had affected him in the slightest. 

As if he weren’t even there at all. At least not in any way that mattered.

Which, Hajime supposed, was actually true so it made sense that his demented mind would shove that fact in his face like this just when he’d forgotten to care about it. 

“Just a pale imitation, just desires painted on an empty canvas. Every inch the disappointment and you inspire not even the tiniest iota of hope. I _understand_ now. You’re just here to add to my despair. Maybe that’s what I feel when you’re inside me, not pleasure, just the satisfaction of having things I always knew true fulfilled. Maybe that’s what it feels like when all the hope is gone and there’s nothing left but despair,” Komaeda commented, idle and bored, releasing his hold quite suddenly. Hajime’s stomach was plunging again, a riot of feeling as Komaeda drew his borrowed shirt up and held it crumpled and damp with sweat and other things against his belly, exposing himself to Hajime’s gaze once more. 

He’d never actually spent much time examining his own dick. Often as not it was an annoyance at best and downright inconvenient at worst. He knew the shape of it by touch, vaguely, but he didn’t really have a clear picture of it in his mind, just sort of a hazy impression and he’d never really been the sort to watch porn or look at dirty magazines or even look at other boys in the showers or communal baths. But he must have done at some point, must have spent enough time to get an idea of what other boys looked like in detail or his imagination was better than he'd given it credit for, because what he was looking at now wasn’t just a vague impression or a shadowed suggestion briefly glimpsed as it had been earlier. It was too close for that. He was staring at it from inches away and it was flushed and slightly curved, bobbing just a little when Komaeda leaned back to snatch up the bandage he’d discarded earlier, the head glistening a little in the moonlight that shone in through a crack in the curtains. It wasn’t something terrible or anything, just a dick... just Komaeda's dick, but it made him feel queasy and unsettled nonetheless.

This was a dream, he _knew_ this was a dream and that none of this was real, but….

“Komaeda, I…”

“You don’t have to, of course,” Komaeda added conversationally, winding the bandage back around his palm and tucking in the loose end before sliding his hand around the shaft and pumping once, slow and loose. And somehow watching someone, watching Komaeda, touch himself like that made him feel nervous and awkward and like there wasn’t enough air in the room. “I can finish this way instead. It’s pretty much the same thing anyway. You might as well go, hm? This is about where you came in.”

His thumb slid over the head and Hajime was vaguely aware of the fact that he was breathing hard and fast, as if he’d been running a race rather than just kneeling on the floor. His focus had narrowed to that point, to that thumb running up and over and down and lingering a moment too long. He was still painfully hard and his trousers felt like they were two sizes too small and watching Komaeda like this wasn’t helping matters. 

“This is really wrong,” he managed finally, forcing his gaze up.

“Is it?” Komaeda replied, his eyes narrowed and a little glassy. “I don’t know that someone who still has my blood all over his hand really has much room to talk about what’s wrong and what isn’t. Or is it that it’s fine for you to be inside someone like me, but perhaps I’m too filthy to be inside you? I suppose I could understand that reasoning.”

“No, it’s not… it’s not that, I… dammit, Komaeda,” Hajime sighed, remembering distinctly another reason he’d always found him irritating. His personality was terrible, but he was rarely wrong or at least not totally wrong and that made him all the more annoying. Shame pooled fresh in his belly and he wiped his red, blood-covered hand against the sheets. “You don't make any sense at _all_.”

“Don’t I? Th-that’s… uh… funny, isn’t it? I-I’m close, I'm really close,” Komaeda murmured, voice hoarse. Hajime opened his eyes, surprised to find that he’d closed them at all and downright shocked that Komaeda had thought to warn him, give him the chance to move. He never did anything he expected, nothing, even when he wasn’t really him at all. 

He glanced up into Komaeda’s face and it was… he was really…. 

Lips barely parted, eyes closed, cheeks flushed…

Really... sometimes... kind of...

Stunning.

And maybe that was what made him do it, what let that mad impulse over take good sense and had him swaying forward, his tongue darting out to taste him, hesitant and unsure. Komaeda’s sharp intake of breath was intoxicating and he let that noise draw him in, close enough to wrap tentative lips around the head, so much smoother than he’d thought it would be, but strangely cool and salty sour. Komaeda’s fingers slid around the back of his head again and he shuddered, suddenly anxious because he had no idea what he was doing. And he was more than a little freaked out about how badly he wanted to taste more of him, all of him, of the way he ached with wanting him when only a moment before he’d been irritated with him. 

“Curiosity killed the cat, you know,” Komaeda breathed, his tone flat and dead and Hajime moaned as apprehension crawled up his spine. He rolled his eyes back up to find Komaeda looking down at him as if from some great height. Whatever emotion he’d thought he heard in his voice, whatever he’d seen in his face before might as well have been imagined and he shuddered, revulsion slithering through him as he realized that he was an idiot. This wasn’t real and it wasn’t even a dream, this was a nightmare and he kept _forgetting_. Kept forgetting that and letting his dreadful desires lead him about when he should damn well know better. 

The only warning he got that this latest terrible decision was even worse than he’d thought was a smug quirk of Komaeda’s lips before the hand that he’d slipped into Hajime’s hair tightened painfully, causing him to cry out again at the abuse of his already tender scalp. Komaeda’s hips jerked up, fast and sudden, thrusting his dick further into his mouth, stifling that cry, pressing past teeth that scraped along the length of him. In an instant, he was in as deep as he could go as Hajime’s lips and nose slammed painfully into his body, into curling bristly hair and cool skin and the hard bones beneath. Hajime choked and gagged and screamed around him and in that terrible moment he came so hard that the world seemed to narrow and darken even as his hands slapped uselessly against the bed and Komaeda’s bare thighs, finding and digging into the wounds there. Warmth soaked through his pants and his hips twitched and quivered in the aftermath as he felt Komaeda spilling down the back of throat.

**+++**

Hajime woke up sticky and gasping and coughing, hacking, gagging.

His throat ached and his knees ached and his head hurt and he could still feel the delicious burn of Komaeda’s fingernails against his back and chest and every part of his body was throbbing and alive with pain and the echo of pleasure. He was soaked with sweat and the inside of his pants and his hands were wet and sticky and his mouth was filled with the salty sour taste of that Komaeda who wasn’t Komaeda.

He bent over the side of the bed and threw up everything he’d eaten before bed, vomit hitting the tiled floor with a sickening splat. Even when there was nothing left to throw up, he continued to heave and gag, the taste of bile burning his lips and tongue.

Sometime, probably on the third or fourth shivering, shuddering heave, he’d started sobbing. Ugly, angry wretched sobs that were less sadness and more frustration, because as embarrassing as the earlier dream had been this had been so, so much worse. He should be better than this. Better than dreaming of shit like this. Getting off on things like that. What the fuck was he that he couldn’t stop dreaming about Komaeda like that? What was wrong with him? He was sick, obviously, and the worst thing about it, the very worst thing, was that it wasn’t real. It was all in his head. He couldn’t blame it on Komaeda or Enoshima or even Izuru, no, it was all just him now. Just Hinata Hajime and he was a hideous, monstrous excuse for a person who got off on the thought of hurting someone who wasn’t quite a friend, not really, but… who deserved to be treated like one all the same. He deserved better than having Hajime rubbing one out while dreaming about his blood on his hands and the feel of his dick in his mouth while he fought for his life four feet away. 

He threw up yet again; his eyes squeezed shut and shame warring with disgust in his chest. 

“Oh my dear, here, let me help,” Sonia’s voice was soft in the darkness and the door swished as it swung closed behind her and she crossed quickly to fish towels from the dresser.

And just when he’d thought he couldn’t possibly feel worse. He couldn’t stop crying and there was snot and… god… he knew what the room smelled like, between the sweat and the vomit and the- the other stuff. He kind of just wanted to sink through the bed and die. “No, god, Sonia, I’ll take care of it-“ he managed, gagging again and closing his eyes against the sting in his throat. 

“Nonsense, stay right where you are,” she commanded in a tone that would tolerate no dissent. “I shall just be a moment and then we will talk about it, yes?”

“I don’t,” Hajime stopped, coughing and clutching his roiling stomach for all the good that would do him. Every time he moved he felt the wet slickness in his pants and it made him feel sick all over again. He forced himself to open his eyes, to look at her, “I really don’t know if I want to talk about it, Sonia.”

She gave him a look that spoke volumes about what she thought of _that_ idea, “I understand you might not want to, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need to.” 

She knelt down with the towels she’d pulled out of the room’s dresser, efficiently clearing away the vomit from the floor as if she did that sort of thing all the time. She tossed the dirty towels into the waste bin and, after a moment of thought, removed the bin to the hallway. That done, she returned to the room and took a seat on the foot of his bed and offered him a small, sympathetic smile. He wondered if they'd had some sort of training in her country that allowed her to be able to clear up vomit and then sit on a bed that stank of sweat and sex dressed in yoga pants and a t-shirt and still somehow look utterly dignified, every inch the royal she was. 

“Sonia, I…” he trailed off, uncertain what he’d meant to say. His body was still throbbing a little and his dick was still half-hard and his pants and sheets were sticky and gross. He’d wiped the worst of the tears and the snot off hurriedly on the blanket and he’d managed to pull himself together enough to lean back against the wall, his hands balled into fists in his lap, but he was well aware that he was still an awful mess. “Sorry,” he muttered finally, a little surprised when she shook her head almost violently, her pale hair swinging limply around her.

“No, no, you must not apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for. I came here because I wished to tell you about an unsettling dream I just had. I woke up and I felt ashamed and I thought that this, _this_ is how we ended up as we were, by hiding away from these parts of ourselves that we found distasteful. That perhaps it was just subtle things such as dreams or urges initially. Little shames that built up within us until we felt we were worth less than nothing or that we hated everything, when in truth we simply could not face ourselves. So we tried to drag the whole of the world into the muck with us because misery, as they say, thrives in poor company.”

“I don’t think anyone says it that way, but I think I get what you mean,” Hajime murmured, staring down at his sticky hands, a physical proof of his own depravity. He glanced back up at her and she gave him a soft smile that said, whatever her reasons might be, that she understood him very well. And even though he still felt terrible… he also felt lucky. He hadn’t had friends before, had barely had people he was friendly with at all, he was truly fortunate to have them now. Even if none of the five of them were coming in without ten pounds of baggage and a trunk of bad memories besides.

His breath stuttered out and he realized he was crying again and he wasn’t alone, even though her voice didn’t waver there were tears coursing slowly, inevitably down Sonia’s pale cheeks. “I thought, perhaps, I was not the only one who felt this way and you did say I was welcome so I decided to take you up on your offer. When I heard you moaning through the door and I… well… I understood what that sort of sound meant. I was going to return to my room, leave you to it and perhaps speak to you in the morning, but when I heard you sobbing and being sick, I thought perhaps you might need a friend to confide in as well. It was a dream that incited this, yes? Would you tell me what you dreamt of? I assure you, you will not shock me and I will not judge you no matter the content.”

“I…” It was strange. Earlier with Kazuichi, he hadn’t wanted to talk about it even as much as he had, but here in the dark with Sonia, with the soft hum of the pod and the whoosh of the air conditioner clicking to life, things seemed less mortifying. Maybe she was just easier to confide in or maybe it was the dark or the fact that if he didn’t get it out, let it go, it felt as if this secret knowledge would rot him away from the inside and there would be no escaping it. “I dreamt about Komaeda. About being back on the island with him and having sex with him, sort of, I guess, but also… he had all those wounds, you know, from before? I…” he swallowed, painfully, staring hard at his clenched fists. “I… I _hurt_ him, and I liked it. I liked hurting him and I liked the sounds he made and I liked it when he hurt me just as much.”

Sonia nodded as if this made perfect sense. As if it wasn’t weird or awful, just… perfectly understandable. “You were very close before.”

“Everyone always says that, but I don’t think we were. I didn’t… he was a hard person to talk to, to be around.”

“Yes, I suppose he was, but you were the only one of us who would seek him out. Who tried to reach him, once the killing game started in earnest.” 

“Did I? I don’t know. It just seemed like he was always there, but all I remember thinking was how much I’d never be able to understand him and how much he scared the hell out of me sometimes.”

“That is understandable. Komaeda was… a difficult person, even before.” 

He’d known, on some level, that they would have known him before all this, at Hope’s Peak and afterwards as Ultimate Despair, but somehow it hadn’t occurred to him to ask about it, about him. “You knew him?”

Sonia smiled, a little sadly, “Not really. It was strange. We were, those of us that were in the same year, all in the same classes, all together in terms of physical proximity, but we were, many of us, also very much alone. We didn’t speak much about our personal issues.”

“Is that what you dreamt about? Your time at Hope’s Peak?” 

“No, it was something quite different, but… in order to explain it properly, I should like to tell you about how I was… before. When we were in school. I think I would find it difficult to speak of this with the others, because they were there. I am not certain how much they remember, but they probably saw some of it even though they might not have understood or cared at the time. I… I think we were all very much lost in our own private pain and did not notice much of what went on around us. I do not remember all of those years, though I imagine that will come with time, but I remember enough for a story at least, if you would listen?”

“Of course,” he replied, unthinking. “Always. Anything you want to tell me, I want to hear.” And he was surprised, a little, to find that that was true. He’d never had friends before, not really, but now that he did… they were the center of his world. He wanted to help them, support them, all of them. He was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be particularly great at it, but he wanted to _try_ to be there for them which was more than he’d ever wanted in the years before.

Her smile was wistful, but pleased. “I think we would have all been so much better off if we’d been able to be friends before.”

“Me too,” Hajime murmured, shifting and wincing a little. “Um, would you mind if I, uh, changed my pants first though? And maybe the sheets? This is kind of….”

“Oh! Yes, certainly, how thoughtless of me not to suggest it. I will aid you with changing of the sheets,” Sonia replied quickly, her smile brightening and her manner brisk as she bounced to her feet and crossed the room in search of a spare set of sheets. He could tell she was deliberately taking her time, looking through the drawers, giving him time to sort himself out. He stripped off his pants and shirt, using the shirt to wipe himself off the best he could. It wasn't perfect and he still felt disgusting and in desperate need of a shower, but it was the best he could manage without going out to find a shower room or something as, for whatever reason, none of the hospital rooms had them. He snagged a fresh set of clothes from the pile in the bag beside his bed and changed into them quickly before he started stripping the sheets from the bed. When that was done, he went out and dropped the whole disgusting pile in the hall next to the trash bin, uncaring of what anyone thought if they saw it. He’d deal with that, all of that, laundry included, in the morning. When he came back into the room, Sonia was already shaking out the replacement sheets. Together they put them on the bed and pulled on a new blanket and then they sat down together in the middle of the bed, close enough that their knees touched whenever one of them shifted. 

“So,” she began, folding her hands primly in her lap, her voice was soft and steady. “Before we were Ultimate Despair I…. Well, you must understand that we of the Novoselic Kingdom have many traditions, as I believe I have mentioned to you in the past. One of these traditions is that lovers cannot marry until they have shown each other their Makangos. However, that is not the only tradition as it concerns marriage. You see, as I believe used to be traditional in many countries, the royals of the Novoselic Kingdom should be untouched before their wedding night. It’s an old tradition and not a particularly good one, I think, but a tradition nonetheless so one I meant to honor to the letter. As you know, my duty was really quite important to me and quite central in my life. So, I had known this was the case since I was very small though I didn’t truly understand what it meant or why it should be a challenging or difficult thing at the time. When I grew older and my body started to change and I began to get restless as I imagine most children of a certain age do, I went to my mother because I had always gone to her in times when I found myself confused or troubled and she was always a great comfort if, perhaps, not the best at answering uncomfortable questions often preferring to fob such things off on the servants who she deemed better at handling the messier aspects of child-rearing. 

“Now, with years between us and the experience of time and life to lean upon, I think that she simply was not ever quite comfortable with speaking of such things to anyone, much less a curious child. I think it is possible that if she had passed off the duty of this explanation to one of the maids, as was her typical want, perhaps things might have been different for me. I do not know. What I do know is that she told me that ladies do not speak of such things and that the best thing to do was to ignore any unfortunate feelings I might have. She made it seem as if it were a thing that no one would or should actually wish to know of so I felt my curiosity about the subject was misplaced and that, perhaps, there was something wrong with me that I should be interested in such things. I refocused by energies elsewhere and resolved not to think about it, but every once in a while I’d be watching one of your dramas or I’d see a film or read a book and it would… it would make me a little… um, hot under the shirt, I believe is the phrase? And I would feel as if I had done something terribly improper. I wouldn’t touch myself or anything like that, that was obviously not something I should do, but even just feeling that way seemed taboo. 

“When they allowed me to come to Hope Peak’s Academy, I had such hope as to what my life would become there. I have always seen myself as a Princess first and a girl second, but I had hoped to be able to enjoy some of the more common experiences I had not been privy too. I had hoped such experiences would broaden my horizons and allow me to be a better leader to my people; that I would gain discipline by exposing myself to a life that would be structured quite differently than my life had been in my country. I also dreamed of having people I could speak to, confide in, much as I am confiding in you now. What I didn’t anticipate, and perhaps should have, was how difficult it would be to make friends. My grasp of Japanese was quite good, even then, but I often didn’t understand jokes or references and so I was rarely sought out and while my position seemed to confer upon me a status some of the others wished to use to improve their own standing and many of the boys seemed to find me attractive, it was rare that someone was friendly with me without wanting something in return. I remember being quite desperately lonely during those first few months and I considered simply returning home many times, but that felt like a failure and while I could stand to be lonely, I couldn’t tolerate the idea of failing. 

“So, I continued to attend Hope’s Peak and I continued to excel at my studies and I attempted to befriend my classmates with limited success. Eventually, however, I became friendly with one person in particular. He was odd and I didn’t often understand him, but he was kind when so many others weren’t and he was one of the few boys who seemed only interested in my company so, of course, I adored him. He told wonderful stories and never seemed to be bothered by having to explain things to me when I didn't understand a word or a reference. He allowed me to accompany him sometimes when he was participating in his club activities. Eventually, after some time had passed, I found myself attracted to him in a romantic way and so I thought of this boy in passing often, of his kindness and his humor certainly, but also of his hands and his mouth and I… began to want things. Really quite specific things and I thought about them and sometimes I would get quite… well… excited, I suppose. "I tried to speak to him sometimes about these things that I felt for him, but… he always seemed to misunderstand me. Or perhaps he simply wasn’t interested as I had not been interested in all those other boys. It might have been different if we were not friendly or if we had been able to have a frank discourse about it, but… whenever I attempted to do so he would have something else he desperately needed to do or he would change the subject quite abruptly or he would purposefully avoid me in some other way. It… eventually all this little slights began to make it… very difficult to be around him. I still quite liked him and enjoyed his company, but it began to seem false and forced to be cheerful when speaking to him. It is… a dreadful thing to want something and be unable to speak of it. And it… hurt that he was supposed to be my friend, my only friend really, and yet I could not tell him of anything I felt or of my confusion or even apologize for feeling that way. I began to think, perhaps, there was something wrong with me again, something I lacked, something that made me unworthy of time and consideration and love. And once again I found myself so terribly lonely and when one is lonely enough, I suppose, that which once seemed unthinkable, at least for me, began to seem… reasonable. Even desirable. I wanted so very much to feel something pleasant. To feel anything pleasant at all, really, as everything in my life seemed so dull and dreadfully pathetic. 

“It was around that time that I began to finally experiment with my body in the way I imagine most young people do. And afterwards I would feel terrible and embarrassed and deeply ashamed of myself for doing such things. Of allowing myself to be so weak and I would vow never to do it again and for a while, perhaps, I wouldn’t, but then I would find my thoughts catching on some particular thing about him. Perhaps it would be the fit of his jacket across his shoulders or the gentle way he had with those most important to him or how awkward he was when complimented or a million other subtle things. Eventually any stray thought at all could be enough to give my thoughts an erotic turn. I wouldn’t be able to look at him for hours or days afterwards and I’m sure it was very confusing for him because we were still quite friendly at the time for all that he also made me feel quite awful. But I’m quite sure he didn’t realize that and that it was not in any way intentional. It wasn’t as if he were doing anything wrong simply by not being interested in me, after all. It wasn’t any fault of his that I liked him or that I couldn't seem to move beyond it. I felt so desperately guilty, for liking him, for thinking about him that way, but I couldn’t find the words to confess what I had done and how I felt. He was the only one at Hope’s Peak I felt I could truly call friend and I felt, though I'm sure this sounds a bit silly and overwrought, as if I were betraying both him and myself and everything I believed I should be and it seemed as if the shame of it would eat me alive. And feeling so terrible about it, made it that much more difficult to stop because it was the only time I forgot how awful I felt, how disgraceful a person I had become. It was a… vicious circle.”

“It was Tanaka, wasn’t it? The boy you liked?” 

Sonia nodded, a quirk of her lips that wasn’t quite a smile. “Of course. It seems so terribly obvious now. I remember seeing him the first day on that beach as if it were the first time and feeling nonetheless as if he were a beautiful person. I didn’t know him at all, but I think there are some things that must stay with us even in the absence of memory. I loved him as a child, I suppose it was only natural that when brought back to the beginning and given another chance to do so, I would simply follow my wayward heart back down that path once again.” 

“What’s my excuse then?”

“For Komaeda?”

“Yeah.”

“As I said, I remember him a little from those early days and you’d think, having known him on the island and having the knowledge that they'd tried to return us to the selves we were just before Hope's Peak, that he was always that way… but he was not. Or perhaps he was and Hope's Peak merely broke him more quickly than it did the rest of us. I do not know for certain. Komaeda- as I remember him- was tired and drawn and so very pale. He’d been sick for a long time, but that was all I knew about it. I remember the way his luck seemed to manifest in very extreme ways and it made him very unpopular even in a class of people who did not truly relate well to each other in the first place. He would trip down the stairs and hit his head really hard against the floor, but then he’d pull himself up and he would smile this sad, knowing sort of smile and the next day he would have this giant bruised bump on his head, but he would score perfectly on a surprise quiz. Some of the others accused him of cheating, but he always just shrugged and told them that it was just luck and that only made them angrier and they would call him a liar. Because everyone knew that the lucky student wasn’t called that because they were actually lucky, that it was just because they had won the lottery. It became a nickname after a while and soon almost everyone called him Liar Komaeda. He was treated quite poorly and I’m embarrassed to say I did not deal with him particularly well myself even if I did not participate in the worst of the… bullying, is the word, I think? Like many of us, he didn’t seem to connect with people in meaningful ways. I remember trying to speak with him several times over the years and it was as if I was speaking to a different person each time. I found it confusing and disturbing, perhaps a little frightening sometimes, so I eventually just decided to stay clear of him. Even though I had nothing to do with him, I still noticed when he started following her about. She treated him a bit like a favored pet and he seemed to enjoy the attention. He wasn’t always with her, but… often as I remember it in those early days and later.

“She could tell I think, about Komaeda and about me. I truly believe, looking back on it now and remembering how it was then, that she had a knack for sniffing out such things. The things we wanted to hide, the things that mortified and humiliated and shamed us. The things we needed, but didn’t know how to ask for. The dangerous things and the hateful things and the weakness within each of us, these feelings and desires that she could so clearly and easily exploit to her advantage to make of us what she wished. Looking back now, I think there was an art to what she did to each of us, the way she sidled up to us and found these secret parts of ourselves, these things we hated and these things we longed for. The way she encouraged these things in us. Perhaps that was her truest ability, I can’t say for certain, but that’s what I think.” 

“I don’t know, but that’s probably right.” Hajime murmured, “I don’t remember her at all, not really, just what she was like in the game and sort of these… random images like faded photographs.”

“I hope it stays that way for you. I would much rather not remember her, to be honest. It’s… difficult. Not because of the terrible things she did and encouraged me… us… to do. You might think it would be that, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was that she became my friend. She made me feel… loved at first. She gave me the friendship, the approval, the support I didn’t realize I was looking for. She filled the void within me that Mr. Tanaka had left behind when I'd begun to like him and he'd begun to avoid that aspect of me. She became my confessional, my confidante and it was wonderful and it was terrible all at once.

“She was the first person I told about my feelings for that… for Mr. Tanaka. She told me there was nothing wrong with it, with wanting the things I wanted, that sex was natural and wanting it was natural and needing it was a given. She could be very kind when the mood took her and I think that was easily the very worst thing about her. It’s so easy to see cruelty for what it is; if she had just been cruel I don’t believe very many of us would have fallen into the traps she set for us. She told me everything I wanted, needed, to hear. She enabled me to give myself permission to do as I wished even if it only made me feel worse and worse about myself. She spoke gently to me about it at first, asked if she could show me a few things, help. It seemed like such a very lovely and understanding thing she did for me. It was very nice, really. Finally having a friend who didn’t confuse me, who didn’t shut me down or shut me out, someone who I could speak to and who understood my difficulties. She drew pictures or passed me links to do my own reading and research. It seemed quite harmless and it did help, at least a little bit, it made it seem as if it was indeed quite normal and I didn’t feel as awful as I had about it. I began to feel better about myself and it became easier to speak with Mr. Tanaka again as a friend and to keep our conversations superficial the way he seemed to want. For a short time, my life truly was… better for having Junko as my friend. It didn’t last, of course, as everything could only go downhill from there. But during that time, I became quite dependent on her and I trusted her implicitly and that made everything that happened after a very simple matter for her.

“I’m sorry, Sonia,” Hajime murmured, unsure what to do, how to make any of this better when the wounds were both fresh and old at the same time. 

“I appreciate that, but… it was a long time ago and I suppose I’ve gotten a bit off track. I meant to tell you about the dream I had, not quite all of this. All you truly need to understand is that my relationship with Mr. Tanaka had been quite complicated. He was a softhearted boy, beneath all the mysticism and toughness, and also quite fragile in his way. I didn’t see it then, of course, so caught up in my own nonsense. But he lived as much in his fantasies as he did in the reality of who he truly was. He loved animals, all animals, and his devas more than all the rest. The school kept a small private collection of animals that he oversaw the care for as the person in charge of his club and then he also trained animals for Hope Peak’s alumni and donors. He was always busy and he had a lovely manner with animals, but he didn’t relate well to people. He allowed me to accompany him to visit with them all several times when he was doing his care routines or taking one of the animals in for a training session. So, I saw sometimes how brusque he could be with the owners, how furious he would get if he saw even the faintest hint of mistreatment. He was a wonderful person with a very large heart. His devas were wonderful, truly, even cuter and more delightful than they were in the simulation and he loved them so much. Anyone could see that. And… as I mentioned I was very caught up in my own affairs at that time, but we were still on good terms and, in fact, friendlier than we'd been quite some time. 

“Friendly enough that I noticed when he showed up in class without them. He was so obviously devastated that I couldn’t understand how no one else noticed or cared. After class was over, I caught his hand as he was packing up. You must understand this wasn’t the first time I had touched him and though I knew such gestures embarrassed him, he’d never seemed to truly mind. But that day he jerked away as if my touch burned and he looked so panicked and he said something about poison and something about corruption, other things as well, but he was speaking so fast that I couldn’t catch all the words. I sometimes had difficulties, you see, when things were said too quickly or the syllables ran together. He knew that and he was usually very good about speaking slowly and clearly for me, but he was clearly upset. I was still trying to puzzle out what he had said when he snatched up his belongings and ran out of the room. 

“I… I should have gone after him. I realize that now. It was what a friend would have done. A true friend would not have been so easily dissuaded. I should have gone after him right then and there, but I didn’t. I went to find Junko instead, because I knew she was friendly with him as well and I thought… if he wouldn’t talk to me, someone at least should be able to be there for him. I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing, but it was also the cowardly thing, the self-centered thing. I wanted him to be okay, but I also didn’t want to face the possibility of being rejected by him yet again.

“Junko was very understanding. She said she would take care of him and that I need not worry about a thing and went off in search of him immediately. She came to my room late that night to tell me that his devas had all been killed in a terrible battle. That all the animals he cared for were sick, dying, and the instructors believed he was to blame for it. There was to be an investigation and that I must not speak to him until the investigation had been concluded. You see the investigators had already discovered that the poison that was used to kill these animals was one native to my country. If I were seen being overly friendly with him, it might implicate me or make him look more guilty, she said. I didn’t want that, _of course_ , I didn’t want that. So I agreed to stay away, to treat him coldly and Junko told me that she would make sure he knew it was only an act for his benefit.”

“I’m guessing she probably didn’t do that,” Hajime murmured. 

“Certainly not. I do not know what transpired between them then or in the future, I only know that I lost my friend. I… worry that she… that she killed the devas and used that poison so that he would think I was responsible, so that he would blame me for what befell them and the others. I… I worry he will hate me when he wakes up and… I am not certain he would be wrong to. I was selfish and I was foolish and even if it was not I who laid the poison that killed his beloved hamsters I was the reason it was done, or at least part of it. I found myself wondering, as I fell asleep tonight whether, if he remembered both our past and our time within the game, he would want me there. Whether he would be hate me for being in his room, for staying by his side as if we were friends when we so clearly are not or if we might finally be able to understand each other, because I don’t believe we ever truly have. I worry that whatever semblance of a friendship we had was broken to pieces by an adolescent crush, misplaced trust and a few simulated weeks of almost friendship won’t add up to anything at all in light of that and that thought terrifies me. 

“I had a dream, before I came here tonight, about Mr. Tanaka… hm, about Gundham, I should say. If I want to be his friend, I should... should be able to call him by his first name, shouldn't I? I don’t know if it means something or nothing, but I thought it was something I needed to tell someone about nonetheless. He was on the island and he was digging holes high up on the shore beneath one of those palm trees, where the shade was the best and it’s far enough up from the shore that the water wouldn't reach even at high tide. 

“I approached from a long way off, though it seemed to take me no time at all to reach him. When I arrived I asked him what he was doing and he glanced up and he looked so surprised to see me or perhaps that I was concerned, I don’t know. He was bruised, bloodied as he was the last time I saw him, at his execution. He told me that his friends at least deserved a proper burial. That if that was all he could do for them, he could do that. And there… there were so many holes. Some were small and shallow, some long and deep. It seemed as if there shouldn’t have been room enough for them all in that high part of the beach, but there was. And he kept digging as I stood nearby watching him. He was dressed much how he was in the simulation, though he had stripped off his long coat and scarf and his neck and arms were red from the sun, but he just kept digging for what seemed like hours. Hole after hole after hole.

“Finally he stopped and he looked at me again and said, ‘Yours shall be separate from the rest, she-cat’ and then he went right back to it.”

“I wanted to apologize to him. For so many things, but I simply couldn’t find the words. I think I cried, but I couldn’t bring myself to cross the distance between us or interrupt him again. Eventually I woke up without ever having said another word to him. Do you think that makes me a terrible person?”

“No, I think that just makes you a person. It was just a dream. When he wakes up, you’ll have your chance.”

“Yes, I suppose we all will. For the things we have done and the things we wish we had done.”

“Yeah, I think so too.”

“Do you like Komaeda?”

“I…” He glanced over at the soft glowing light of the pod and it wasn’t an easy question to answer. Maybe it should have been, but it wasn’t. Komaeda had always been a complicated issue for him. Sometimes he hated him, sometimes he wanted to hurt him, sometimes he liked him and less often he just… wanted him, obviously. There wasn’t anything about his feelings for Komaeda that were simple or straightforward that could be easily defined and slipped into a box to be put away on a shelf. He wanted something from Komaeda, had since the first moment he opened his eyes and looked up into that smiling face and during the days afterwards when he spent time with him despite himself. When he’d stood in the building where they’d imprisoned him, stood over him with a tray of food and looked down at him, chained and helpless and still so extraordinarily _dangerous_ and he’d wanted things he hadn’t been willing to put a name to. And afterwards, on the beach and in the hospital and at the amusement park and and the restaurant there had been so many times where he’d found himself looking at Komaeda for too long or standing too close to him, wanting to push him under the waves and just hold him there and give him the death he seemed to so long for so he’d just finally, finally shut the hell up because he was driving him completely insane with all his crazy talk.

No, there was nothing simple or easy about how he felt about Komaeda.

“I want a chance to know him,” he settled on finally, because that was the truth at the core of it. The truth behind getting off on the thought of his moans and dreaming about pushing his fingers into the depths of him and stopping him from hurting himself and kissing him and all the stuff in between. That was the thing that made all of it possible, maybe. He didn’t know him, not really, they’d lied to each other and hurt each other and if… when… Komaeda woke up they probably would again, but he wanted that chance. He wanted to know what made Komaeda the way he was. To know if the real Komaeda was anything like what he imagined him to be and whether he actually wanted that or if he wanted someone who was softer, saner, gentler, someone who made more sense, hell, _any_ sense at all. “I want a chance to really know him and decide whether I hate him or I like him or I want to mail him to Siberia. I want him to have a chance to know me too. Just my normal, unremarkable ordinary self.”

Sonia smiled, “I think that is fine. He would probably find it amusing that you’re dreaming about him so much, that you were having those sorts of dreams about him in the first place. He’d probably say something like: It really is good luck that I’m being thought of in such a way by such a incredible person as Hinata.”

Hajime laughed a little at the impression, the way she posed, finger to her template in mock thought. "Please don't ever, ever tell him. I would never hear the end of it and I'd probably have to kill him for being an ass about it."

"I am quite confident you will tell him about it yourself in your own time. Secrets fester inside us, do not forget."

"Yeah, I get it, I'm just... not looking forward to it. He wasn’t actually very impressed with me after he found out I was just a reserve course student. You saw how he acted towards the end.”

“I did. I also understand that he found out that he and all of us were members of Ultimate Despair. He placed such extraordinary value on hope. He made it the focus of his world in the game, used it to justify the things he did, the lies he told and all the terrible things that were happening to all of us, but when it came down to it… I think he was using hope as a string tied all around himself, holding him together and Junko cut that string by creating a challenge only he had a chance of passing. That room, that reward, was something she made especially for him.”

“I think so too,” Hajime whispered, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his chin against them. “Nothing else could have knocked him over the edge the way that knowledge did. He could turn anything else on its head and find a way to make it work with the way he viewed the world. I don’t think she knew what he would do, but I think she was betting on him killing all of us.”

“Quite right. Do you think, when they wake up, they will be like us? Remembering both the game world and the real world?”

“I don’t know. I’m… I’m not even sure what to hope for. I mean, whatever happens, we’ll find a way to help them, but… I don’t know what would be easier for them.”

“I suppose that is a fair statement. On one hand, it might be easier if none of them remember the horrific deaths they suffered. On the other hand, if they are simply the selves they were before all this, it seems it will be much more difficult to reach them without the bonds we formed in the game, however fragile or temporary they might be in light of everything else that has happened.”

“Yeah, I mean… without the memories from the game, they won’t know me at all, will they?”

“I fear not. I do not yet remember everything, but I… I don’t believe I have any memories of you from before.”

“It’s okay, I didn’t really expect you to. I was in the reserve core class, it’s not like we would have been hanging out even in a perfect world.”

“I suppose not,” Sonia yawned, pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle the motion. “Goodness, I apologize.”

“It’s understandable. You can’t have slept very long.”

“I suppose neither of us have," Sonia replied, yawning again as she slid off the bed and stood up, stretching. "I should return to my room.”

Hajime nodded hesitantly before offering: “You can stay here. I mean, if you want to?”

“You would not mind?” Sonia asked, her voice hopeful.

Hajime chuckled, shaking his head, as he stood up and pulled down the sheets and blanket. “Not at all. Feel free, as long as you don’t mind the smell or the weird looks we’ll probably get in the morning.”

“I do not, the others will understand, I think. If any one thinks something inappropriate has occurred, I shall be the first to set them straight, fear not.”

“I have no doubts.” 

“Very well. Thank you for your hospitality, my friend,” Sonia climbed into his bed with an extra pillow she’d pulled from the dresser, which was proving to be like the giving tree of bedding. Hajime slipped into the bed beside her, turning to face Komaeda’s pod even as Sonia turned into the wall so her back was pressed against his.

It was… nice.

He fell back to sleep eventually to the sound of Sonia’s soft, steady breathing and the quiet buzz of the pod and if he dreamed of Komaeda again that night, he didn’t remember it come morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Memories:** Everyone remembers different things and as time passes will remember more of their pasts at different rates of speed and to varying degrees of impact. Basically, none of them woke up with a full set of island memories and a full set of Pre-Despair  & Post-Despair memories to go with them and just went 'nah, cool, I got this'. As might have been observed last chapter, Akane remembers virtually nothing of her time in Ultimate Despair or the years directly proceeding that time at this point and as seen in this chapter, Sonia remembers a decent amount of the lead-up to becoming a member of Ultimate Despair. 
> 
> **Classes:** I'm working on the theory that they weren't all in the same year at Hope's Peak (rather than just Peko  & Fuyuhiko being in a different year). 
> 
> **Lighting:** The pod glow is bright enough to easily see by which is why neither Sonia nor Hajime feel the need to turn on the actual lights in the hospital room even when they're cleaning up.
> 
> **Not a Virgin Anymore (Just Thought You Should Know):** So, I received a comment earlier this morning about the state of Sonia's virginity based on that exchange that happens in Ch4 at the rollercoaster between Gundham, Sonia and Souda and I never really thought about people reading that particular conversation differently than I did so it never occurred to me to slap down an explanation about it so, my apologies there. That said, here's my read on it, in case you were wondering: 
> 
> So, during the exchange in question Gundham mentions using virgin blood as a sacrifice and indicates that he would use Sonia's and her replying that her blood would be unsuitable followed by Souda inferring that her comment means she isn't a virgin anymore (in the sexual context). 
> 
> Now, in my mind, Sonia is, throughout the game, shown to have an very deep and abiding interest in both the supernatural and the occult. She has also at this point demonstrated that her Japanese is not perfect by any stretch of the imagination and that she lived both a very sheltered life originally and a very lonely one as she had no friends her own age prior to leaving her country to attend school. Consequently, the idea that she would randomly have had consensual sex with someone at some point during this period is extremely unlikely. Furthermore, nothing in her demeanor or anything she says in game indicates that she's been abused in any way beyond the possibility of neglect. So, to me, all this sort of shot the idea of her meaning literally that she was not a virgin because she'd had sex at some point in the face with a bazooka. It's still a valid way to read this exchange, obviously, but that's why it doesn't work for me.
> 
> What does make sense to me, is this:
> 
> Virgin blood, as it pertains to use in rituals and sacrifice, does not actually mean the literal 'blood of someone who has never had sex' rather it means 'blood that has never been used in ritual/sacrifice'. Given her interest in the occult, it's likely this is the meaning she actually gave to it and thus her blood would have been unusable because she had experimented with rituals before and, at some point, used her own blood. And given his obsession with the occult, this would presumably be Gundham's take away as well which is why you don't see him react to the comment at all. 
> 
> So, basically, Sonia and Gundham are having one conversation and Souda is listening in on it and making assumptions all on his own. 
> 
> And that's my read on the situation in a nutshell so, in case you were wondering where I was coming from on this, now you know. And knowing is half the battle. :)


	4. Liar, Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nagito discovers that life after death pretty much sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, the archive/content warnings change frequently. Please check them if that's a concern for you.

_“If you think anyone is sane you just don't know enough about them.”_  
― Christopher Moore, Practical Demonkeeping

 

  
**DAY TWO**  
-continued-  
**+++**

And he was gone.

_Again._

Nagito blew out a breath and flopped back against the bed. His heart still felt like it was going to pound out of his chest. He wouldn’t be surprised if it happened that way and what difference would it make really? It would be just another bloody hole to ache and bleed, just another place to imagine Hinata touching him, giving him pleasure where otherwise there was only pain.

The room stank of spunk and blood and he could barely smell that lingering scent of Hinata beneath it now even lying on his bed. He knew later he’d regret that. Later when he was capable of it, he’d probably regret a lot of things.

He usually did.

Sometimes he really was far too sentimental which was why he liked it better like this. Better when he could just think about things logically when he could focus on feeling what he wanted to feel rather than what he should feel. He’d had a doctor once, he couldn’t remember their face anymore, but he could remember the hands. How the skin had looked soft and crinkled like paper as they grasped their clipboard or pressed against his thighs when he slid down in the chair or held him around the waist sometimes.

Though maybe he was just imagining that, maybe that hadn’t happened at all. Maybe that had been someone else. Maybe that had been something he’d seen in a film once. He could be making it up. He made up a lot of things.

Maybe.

Sometimes.

The point was he remembered this doctor telling him that he shouldn’t think of it as a liability, a disability, a failing… these times when his brain was cold and calculating and practical and casually cruel.

She said he should think of it as his truest most authentic self.

He’d folded his paper-wrinkle hands in his lap, over the bulge there like maybe Nagito might not notice that he was getting off on this, but he always did.

His truest, most authentic self… desire detached from ego free from social convention.

That it must be very thrilling to be able to experience things without conscience. Without that little cricket chirping away on his shoulder telling him when to stop, when to be good, when he’d gone too far.

Nagito was pretty sure he liked the cricket. The cricket kept him out of trouble, kept him from that feeling of shame later and after and again and again and _again_. Kept him feeling worthless like he deserved nothing, like he was nothing, scared to touch things, people, because he’d just contaminate them with his… he wasn’t okay.

He _wasn’t_ okay.

He knew that.

He _knew_ that.

He _did_.

There was no one to look out for him to tell him that he was bad, but he knew. He _knew_. He knew after and later and sometimes during for just a moment or two and sometimes he wanted to die. Sometimes he remembered hands on him and he couldn’t be sure if he’d asked for them or invited them or hated them or loved them.

Funny how it could eat away at his brain like this, chomp holes straight through so that he couldn’t remember the things he’d done, so he could never be sure if that was him, if that was something he’d want, if that was something he’d done, if that was someone else, if….

Hinata had kissed him, hot and wet and he had never wanted anything, _anything_ , the way he had wanted to climb inside Hinata and just never leave. Because Hinata was _there_ , he actually _wanted_ him and he, maybe, even cared about him. He didn’t feel useless or dirty or terrible when Hinata touched him. Hinata’s fingers were inside him, a part of him, and he knew that was wrong, weird, but he didn’t care if it meant he could be _closer_ to him.

Only he couldn’t, because Hinata wasn’t really there.

Hinata had never been there at all.

He wasn’t altogether even absolutely sure that there was a Hinata. He thought there was, he was almost sure there was, but there was always a chance that Hinata was just someone, something, he’d dreamed up to pass the time. That all of this was something like that.

That he wasn’t really here at all except that he was.

Maybe.

Probably.

So, he laid in that room that wasn’t really a room and he could feel the emotions poking in at him again like feathers from a cheap pillow, needling and sharp and unexpected. He could probably stroke another one out before the floodgates opened, probably, if he were quick. The bandages would catch and chafe, but he thought that would probably feel good too.

Like punishment.

Like something he deserved.

Maybe something he even wanted.

But doing that would erase that ghostly warm, damp feeling imaginary Hinata’s mouth had left behind and so in the end he didn’t. He left it alone to grow soft and small with the memory of Hinata imprinted on his flesh for safekeeping. Stroked a hand across his belly instead, across his thighs, for want of something to do.

 

**+++**

The cuts he’d made in his legs had hurt, impaling his hands though… that had been far, far more painful than he’d anticipated, but no more than he deserved. He was one of them after all. If he were… better… braver he could have just killed them all himself.

Let Hinata…

Because obviously it was Hinata…

Probably.

Maybe.

Stupid, normal, beautiful, boring Hinata, who wasn’t anyone or anything except himself.

He had to be the spy, so he’d let him live. That was easy. Let him convict him, execute him, let Monokuma drag him off to face some convoluted punishment.

Easy.

But that wasn’t who he was, was it?

No.

He wasn’t so selfless as that.

He didn’t do anything the easy way.

He didn’t remember the spear hitting, it must have, but he doesn’t remember it. Just the throbbing pain in his hands, in his head, and the warm lick of flames, and then choking, gagging as he breathed in what he assumed was the poison. There had been nothing after that but darkness.

And then… Hinata.

He knew the smell of him, strange that he should forget so many things, but this one piece of knowledge should stick with him even after death. And he knew he had to be dead, but the dead didn’t dream so he imagined it was Hinata’s dream even if it made little sense that Hinata would waste a perfectly good dream on him. Why Hinata would even bother to think of him at all made no sense to him at all.

He told him so.

Hinata’s fingers tugged at his hair a little as they spoke, little sparks of pain that lit up the dark. It felt… all of that… had felt intimate in a way he’d thought of sometimes at night in his cabin and in the darkness of his room in the Strawberry House.

He’d been the one to wake him on the beach that first day. Not because he was kind, but because everyone else had been so caught up in themselves and each other that they hadn't even seemed to notice him. He'd been a little away from the others, under a palm tree, laid out with his hands folded so neatly over his stomach. And he’d looked beautiful sleeping there in the sand. He’d liked the crisp white linen of his shirt and the dark of his tie and his dark, dark hair. He remembered, vaguely, his mother reading him fairy tales when he was small, before the plane. And he thought about how this boy looked like something out of a fairy tale and it made him hopeful. Hopeful that he would like it here at this Hope’s Peak that wasn’t Hope’s Peak. Hopeful that maybe his luck would be good for a while, even if it were just for a while.

He’d wanted to kiss him then, when he was just a pretty boy lying in the sand, but he hadn’t because he wasn’t sure that the boy would like it, that the others wouldn’t laugh at him. He’d been lying to people about that for a while, the wanting to kiss boys thing, because he wanted to be normal. He wanted to be accepted. Hope’s Peak was supposed to be a hopeful new beginning. He was in remission, probably, maybe, and he was taking his medication and everything was supposed to be good there, _he_ was supposed to be good there. He'd been really lucky to have been accepted. Really lucky and he couldn’t waste it. But wanting to kiss that boy, that beautiful boy on the beach, that hadn’t changed after he’d opened his eyes and blinked up at him, eyes narrowed against the brightness of the sun shining down on his face. He’d liked that he was the first thing Hinata Hajime had seen, that he'd been the first one to know his name. It was like having a secret, even if it wasn't really, it was still something he could hold onto that made them special to each other, even if he was the only one who thought so.

He’d lain in his cabin that night and, even though he'd barely known him or anything about him, he’d imagined what it might be like to knot that long tie around his hands and press biting kisses across his chest, whether Hinata would like it, would like him. How much better it might be if Hinata used the tie on him instead, bound his hands behind his back so he couldn’t touch him, couldn’t hurt him, couldn’t even touch himself. How good that might feel. If Hinata treated him like something barely deserving of his attention, like the trash he thought he was sometimes, just used him as he liked or maybe just refused to touch him at all. Left him bound and writhing, seeking a release he couldn’t quite reach alone without even a free hand to help him along. Maybe he’d end up humping the bedpost or a pillow or just the bed itself, so desperate for just a little pressure to help him get there. Maybe Hinata would watch. Maybe Hinata would stick his dick in his mouth, let him suck it, maybe that would be enough and he’d….

He came all over his bare belly and hand thinking of such things, vaguely curious as to when he’d started stroking himself, when he’d lost the clothes. When he’d forgotten about the camera in the corner of the room. He wondered whether he might have said Hinata’s name when he was thinking all those dirty thoughts about him, when he was frantic for release. Whether, if he did, anyone had been walking by and overheard him moaning that name. It was possible since the window was propped open to let in a breeze and that ruined the soundproofing… probably.

He’d probably never know unless someone said something to him about it.

That would be a really terrible way to start out his school term.

He winced a little as he realized that he was still stroking himself even though he was oversensitive and the cooling stickiness made it rough and unpleasant so it was beginning to hurt a little. Of course, sometimes he liked that too. Sometimes he could come again even if it hurt. Sometimes he thought it was because it hurt. Though he knew it was just biology, just having a short refractory period, he was a teenager after all, nothing to be ashamed of… probably.

He'd come again, just a little, across his fingers and he let it go at that. Lifted his filthy fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean as he stared up at the camera, at the little blinking red light. He really hadn’t meant to do any of that. But sometimes that happened. An urge would strike him and he’d just go with it, only realizing later what he’d done. Most of the time he didn’t mind, there was no point to minding, it didn’t change things. Maybe he liked it. Maybe that was why he did it. Because he liked the idea of someone watching him though… it was probably just that bunny thing, so maybe not. Maybe if it had been Hinata… no, he needed to stop thinking about Hinata. He wanted to be normal, to be just… friendly, he could do that… maybe, probably.

But that was then.

Then was when he was alive and now he was dead and in the dark with Hinata and even if he didn’t understand it, he liked being in the dark with Hinata. Even if the dark made him think about things, dirty things, about wanting him even if he was just ordinary.

Now that he thought about it. He thought he could hear a girl’s voice urging him on. Telling him to do what he wanted, that nothing mattered, that he was dying anyway so who cared? What was the point of caring? Like a ghost from another life, a life of blood and carnage and a terrible hungry void that could never be filled.

Her voice felt like snakes in his brain, slithering through the holes and licking at the walls that rose before them. He wanted to moan, to shrink away from the feel of it, but how could you escape something in your own head? He was probably just imagining it anyway. Or maybe he’d seen it in a film. Something.

He had a picture in his mind of red, red nails scrapping up and down his back, of a word like _‘Master’_ on his lips and it tasted bitter and sour and terrible.

He couldn’t escape the things in his head. So, he did the next best thing and turned his attention back to Hinata, who smelled nice and whose fingers were still in his hair. He shook them off and returned the favor, rolling up and over Hinata’s warm body and letting his own fingers settle in Hinata’s hair. It was softer than he would have thought, kind of nice really, and Hinata felt solid and real and nice beneath him. Different from what he had imagined, but better too.

It really was too bad that Hinata was so dreadfully ordinary, but maybe that was part of his appeal. He gripped that hair tight in his fists and shifted to settle over Hinata’s hips and that was nicer still. He wanted to press all along the length of him and so he leaned forward as if to kiss him and he felt him panic a little, his heart beating faster, his breath coming in pants and he wondered if he scared him. He wondered why Hinata didn’t push him away, why he didn’t seem as disgusted with him as he’d been before. They were still talking. It was distracting and he wasn’t sure he wanted to be distracted.

He leaned forward a little more and pressed his lips against Hinata’s, cautiously, because it was difficult to gauge distance in the dark and he didn’t want to hurt him by accident. He whispered words against those lips and it wasn’t quite a kiss, but it felt like it could be, like the potential was there and Hinata might not push him away and he wanted, wanted, wanted.

Then he was waking up on the beach, his lips pressed against the damp, gritty sand and everything hurt, everything ached and he was alone. He screamed, curling empty hands into fists in the mud, ignoring the pain even those small movements brought. He was sobbing and he didn’t mean to, wasn’t sure when all those feelings had flooded back in, when he’d stopped being a creature of physical desires and logic and become completely himself again, this pathetic, writhing mess that ached with the loss of something he’d never even had. That had never even really existed maybe. He didn’t know Hinata, had never known the real Hinata at all, obviously. If there even was a real Hinata, because Hinata might not ever have been anything real or important except in his mind. He didn’t know anything, anything, _anything_.

Time passed or didn’t and he wondered if he’d always been mad and was only just now noticing it or if dying had driven him over the edge and that’s what Hell really was. If Hell was just a name for a lonely place reserved for the mad and the wicked and the damned to live with their wounds and their pain and their regrets and unfulfilled desires for all eternity until they were nothing but a gibbering mass of contradictions and misplaced want.

Hinata hadn’t dreamed of him. Of course, he hadn’t. He should have known that from the beginning. Hinata wouldn’t dream of him. Hinata didn’t want him, love him or need him. Didn’t care about him at all just like he didn’t care about Hinata. Couldn’t care about him. He was ordinary, boring, nothing if he was anything at all. Everything else. Everything he had thought made him special was just all in his head. Everything was in his head and dying was just another way to suffer and there was no escape.

The beach was cold and dark until it wasn’t and then it was sunny and hot and terrible and he could feel the bright, bright light burning against the back of his hands and his scalp and it hurt just like everything hurt. He wanted to burrow into the sand and disappear, roll beneath the ocean waves and drown because then maybe he wouldn’t feel so….

Then maybe he wouldn’t feel so much.

So he did.

He rolled down the beach into the warm water, dragging himself inch by painful inch down beneath the waves where he could swallow that salty water down, where he could scream as it burned his eyes and the wounds his death had left in his hands and legs and stomach. He choked and gagged and every time darkness ate at his vision and he was certain he’d managed it this time he woke back up on that beach, vomiting seawater and feeling weak and worse and aching and even more scared than before, but always, always, _always_ waking up.

He sobbed again for minutes or hours, pounding his aching, bleeding fists against the damp, hard-packed sand. Then, eventually, he tried again.

He woke up again in the same place, the same way. Because of course he did.

Of course, of course, _of course_.

He dug up stones hidden beneath the sand. It hurt and his fingernails ripped and bled and he didn’t care. He filled his pockets with those stones until the coat was so heavy he didn’t think he’d be able to crawl out to sea.

It hurt, his shoulders ached, his fingers bled.

He managed.

He woke up on the beach again, vomiting sea water _again_ , his pockets still filled with rocks and he could swear he heard laughter, rough and high-pitched and hysterical and it was a long time before he realized it was his.

He tried to smother himself in the sand, dug a hole with his aching, bleeding fingers and buried his head, packing the damp sand in around his head and face and mouth like a helmet, gasped and suffered and twitched and managed it by sheer force of will.

Woke up again lying on the beach with drying sand caked in his hair to the words ‘it won’t work’ drawn in the mud near his head and he screamed and screamed until the horror and the shame and the despair drained away like the tide receding from the shore.

He hadn’t known it would be like this.

The sun was low on the horizon when Nagito finally picked himself up off the sand, grimacing at the gritty texture of it in his underwear, in his hair, _everywhere_ and trudged up to the beach house. There were clean clothes there, of a sort, in the form of an exact copy of what he was wearing, perfect right down to the bloodstains and the holes. The sort of thing that would have sent him into hysterics ten minutes before, but now he could observe the presence of the clothes, make the decision to change into them after he’d cleaned up and moved on.

The shower was cold which he didn’t enjoy, but since the dirt and grime were more uncomfortable, he dealt with it. He was shivering when he stepped out of the shower, toweled off, put on the new/old clothes and walked back out of the beach house. He didn’t bother to put his shoes back on. He’d never liked them much anyway and he’d rather go barefoot. The air was still warm though the sun had set while he was changing. He went and stood at the edge of the sea and stared out at the darkening horizon and wondered idly if this was going to be everything he knew from now on. If it would only be the sun and the ocean and the sky and him alone with these aching wounds until the emotions returned and he tried to bash his head in with a rock or jump off a cliff and just made things worse. He could manage well enough with the current wounds, but he doubted he’d do as well with a bashed in skull or broken limbs. He couldn’t die here, obviously, but he doubted he could heal here either. Maybe it wasn’t Hell so much as Purgatory. And he would linger here, lost and waiting, until some greater power that he didn’t believe in got tired of watching him squirm.

Hours passed like that. He wasn’t hungry or thirsty. He didn’t need anything, want anything, not really since his hair and clothes had already dried in the breeze and the night air seemed pleasantly cool against his skin so he was comfortable enough. He didn’t see the point of moving since his muscles didn’t ache from standing and the view could be worst. He rocked back and forth a little, because the movement was comforting or comfortable, something like that.

Then, between one moment and then next he heard the rustle of clothing and heard footsteps in the sand. And that figured. The moment he was content there he was again to stir him up. “Back again?” He called, not bothering to turn towards him.

“Shouldn’t that be my line?” Hinata murmured, stepping up beside him. “My dream and all.”

“Is it?” Nagito replied, tilting his head quizzically as he continued to stare out across the dark ocean. “I thought so too, but I’ve been here all day waiting for you.”

“You were waiting for me?”

“Not because you’re _special_ , obviously, just because I thought you might show up anyway so I thought I might as well. It’s just my luck that it’s you here with me after all,” Nagito glanced over, turning towards him a bit, towards this fake, this phony and he doesn’t really care what he’s saying. He wants to be cruel, wants to see this Hinata wince and grimace at his words and he does, but it’s not satisfying because nothing really is.

He finds himself a little annoyed by the way Hinata is staring at his chest. As if it’s something horrifying which, he supposes, it probably is, but it isn’t as if that’s news. He’s known about it since he woke up here, he’s already screamed and cried and carried on about it like an infant. It irritates him that he’s acting like the wound is a _surprise_. Bringing it back to his immediate attention.

“You’re staring, Hinata. Have a got something on my chest?” He asked, soft and wry.

“Why’d you do it that way?”

“Hm?” Because he can’t quite believe he’s being asked by himself to explain himself. That’s irritating too.

Hinata’s fingers brushed the sleeve of his coat and then his hand, pausing and lingering against the wound there.

“Ah,” Nagito murmured, shrugging his narrow shoulders. “It isn’t so bad as all that, here, feel.”

It’s impulse that has him turning and he doesn’t even realize what he intends to do until he steps over to him, snatches up his hand and plunges Hinata’s fingers into the aching, bloody, disgusting wound in his chest and….

Huh.

That was… kind of...

That was _perfect_ … that was…

He choked on a groan because that was exactly what he needed. It wasn’t quite pleasure, more like satisfaction and relief, like taking off ill-fitting shoes at the end of a long day. And he wanted more, more, _more_. Wanted him to sink those fingers deeper and deeper into every part of him and he knew he wouldn’t. No. Boring, mundane, ordinary Hinata wouldn’t want to _hurt_ him, so he would have to help things along. He pressed Hinata’s fingers deeper into that wound that suddenly no longer felt quite like a wound at all, slipped them deep with a soft squelching sound that made his stomach tumble over and over like laundry in a dryer.

Nagito opened his eyes, just enough so that he could see him, even though he knew Hinata wasn’t really there, that he wasn’t really pressing fingers into him, that that panting breath was his own, he still felt compelled to see his reaction.

He wasn’t sure what he expected.

Perhaps disgust or hate or fear or anything at all really, but he should have expected it might be something more in line with fantasy than reality. That slack-jawed expression, that unfocused gaze, those flushed cheeks… that wasn’t so different from what he’d imagined Hinata must look like when he was right on the edge, so turned on that maybe he’d forget who was making him feel that way, maybe he wouldn’t care if Nagito put his hands on him. He was pretty sure he smiled, because that expression was beautiful. Hinata was beautiful and in that moment he didn’t care that this wasn’t the real Hinata that this wasn’t anything but a desperate attempt by his damaged brain to make things better, easier to cope with. He could feel Hinata trembling and he heard his name tripping off those lips as a whimper, as needy as he was beginning to feel from just that look, that touch, just his name being said in a voice that warms him despite everything he knows to be true and it’s like being caught between two worlds. Part of him is still looking down on all this with derision knowing it for the hopeless, revolting, pathetic fantasy it is, but the other part… the other part that wants and wants and wants so very badly to be everything to somebody whispers _Hajime_ like a prayer before it’s swept away and lost in the flow. Drowned in that endless void of need that rears up within him ready to engulf everything he’s ever wanted, ever been, and he doesn’t mean to say it or the words that slip free afterwards, but he can’t keep them in either. Doesn't even want to.

“This isn’t quite how I imagined you inside of me, Hinata, but perhaps this is just right for trash like me, hm?”

And just like that he’s alone.

Whimpering and painfully turned on and utterly, utterly, utterly _alone_.

Just like he’s been all along.

His hands are trembling where they rest against his sides and the laughter his back. That loose, painful, loud, hysterical laughter that makes his chest _ache_ and his eyes blur with tears.

He’s always known he was… he wasn’t right, that his brain wasn’t right, that he didn’t function like other people anymore that maybe he never really had. That he talked too much and said things he didn’t mean to say and did things he didn’t really mean to do and sometimes it was hard to remember why he should feel good or bad or anything at all. It was hard to keep track of what was right and what was wrong and what was necessary and what he wanted, but… but he’d had hope. Hope that it would pass that he’d get lucky, lucky like he’d been when survived the plane crash, lucky like he’d been when he won all that money, lucky like he’d been to live this long, and he’d get _better_.

He’d get better... only he _didn’t_. He never did. He just got worse and worse and _worse_ and now he was… he was _this_. Hopeless, awful, terrible, disgusting, pathetic trash who couldn’t even tell what was real and what wasn’t, who wanted these things. Who did these revolting things and sometimes didn’t even know they were, didn't understand, couldn't see it at all. He wanted to love Hinata. He wanted to hate him too. He wanted to… to… _fuck_ him or to be fucked _by_ him.

Anything.

_Everything._

He just wanted to feel something that wasn’t this... _emptiness_. He wanted to wake up and know he was just himself and he didn’t have to worry that he was going to… that he was….

Hope was such a dangerous thing. A beautiful thing, a wondrous thing, but also a dangerous thing as well. At least it was for him. He’d had so much _hope_ for a better future and then Monokuma… Monokuma came in and ruined _everything_ and he thought… he thought if he could just… just make it all mean something that would be enough. If he could just give them hope, if they could just understand....

But they hadn't understood and he'd messed up. His luck had... he'd had a _plan_ and it had been a good plan and he'd just... he'd just wanted to... he wasn't sure now what he had been trying to do _exactly_ , but he thought... thought he'd meant to give them hope. The hope that came from overcoming an obstacle and he was going to be that obstacle. He liked them. He really liked them, Hinata especially and so if he could be... if he could help save someone then maybe...

Maybe.

Maybe they'd like him too and he would give them hope and they'd... say nice things about him after, maybe?

Something.

There had been a plan, at least, he was sure of that.

A plan.

Though maybe... maybe he'd meant to get Togami killed after all. Maybe that had been his intention all along. Maybe he'd known his luck would....

Maybe.

He was sure that it _probably_ wasn't supposed to go like that anyway. But he could _fix_ it, if they'd just let him. He thought he could fix it, anyway. Because he’d messed up. He’d messed up right from the start, but he’d thought he could make it right. They could kill him or he could help them or… but that wasn’t right either, was it? Nothing was right and then he was… they were… and Hinata…

He'd hated the way Hinata had looked at him after. Like he felt sorry for him or he was disgusted by him or sometimes like he was something delicate and fragile and crazy and maybe he was.

Maybe.

But who wants to be looked at like that?

No one, that's who.

So, most of all, most of all, he wanted to _ruin_ him. Because Hinata wasn’t like them, like any of them. He wasn't Ultimate Despair. He might not have been the spy either, but he definitely wasn't one of them. He wasn't the least bit extraordinary, he was just be normal, ordinary boring. He wasn't the hope he longer for. He was just Hinata Hajime. Just the beautiful boy from the beach and that wasn’t enough...

Only it was. And he wanted to drag Hinata down to his level so that he couldn’t leave, so he wouldn’t want to, because he wanted him close. Needed him. Obviously. Obviously. Why else would he keep imagining him like this? He was an awful person. Terrible, worthless, useless trash who couldn’t even _kill himself_ properly.

He realized vaguely that he was breathing too fast, panicked, that his injured aching hands were resting against his knees and he’s sucking in breath after breath, but no matter how many breaths he took it was like there was never enough air and his vision filled with splotches of dark and light and he feels himself waver and wobble. His head spins and he feels like he’s falling and then, for a while, there’s nothing at all.

 

**+++**

He woke up alone.

On the beach again with the waves sweeping, cold and unpleasant, over his bare feet, soaking his pants almost to the knee. He wasn't quite sure how much time has passed, but his face hurt a little and he has dirt in his mouth.

And that was gross.

He picked himself up and trudged back to the beach house to shower again. He shivered and shook and froze under the harsh stream of cold water, but it didn’t matter. He'd donned another outfit identical to the one he’d been wearing. He leaves off the shoes again, choosing to remain barefoot.

He walked to the Hotel.

His feet hurt by the time he got there.

Everything was dark, but the moonlight was enough for him to see by. He'd gone to Hinata’s cabin and he hadn't really been surprised to find it unlocked. Once inside he'd undone the fastenings on his pants and shucked both those and the boxers beneath, letting them fall carelessly to the floor before kicking them viciously at the glass wall of the shower area. They'd slumped forlornly against the glass and he'd thought about kicking them again for effect, but eventually decided against it.

He'd laid down on the bed and maybe he'd fallen asleep for a while, maybe he hadn’t, but the next time he really focused in on what was happening to him, around him, he’d been shuffling a rough hand over his dick. He remembers wondering vaguely where the bandages had come from, but he hadn't cared enough to wonder for long and besides he'd done far stranger things than that while he hadn't been paying attention. Instead of dwelling on that, he had shoved himself up and slumped forward, his hand moving fast and frantic, intent on finishing as quickly as possible so he could go back to sleep... or possibly just to sleep at all, maybe.

He came and, for a moment, he'd felt nothing but a hint of relief since he could finally stop and then he'd realized that Hinata was there and it had hit him in the face, splattering across his lips, into his mouth, across his cheek.

It wasn’t the best thing he’s ever seen, but his body had seemed to enjoy it nonetheless.

The moments after were a blur of talking, talking, talking and he remembers that it was important, that some of it was important anyway, but there was something… something…

Enoshima.

Enoshima _Junko._

That was it. That name, there was something about that name, about the way Hinata had said it, like a curse. It had sounded like a gong in his head, rattling his brain around, stirring things up. He’d felt kind of sick because there was something about that name. Something about that name that made him want to… he wasn’t sure. Something. There was something. And it made him feel off-balance… then he’d remembered that it was just the name of some model. The kind that posed for magazines and showed up on the news sometimes, no one worth caring about, just a name pulled from the dingy hallways of memory and he’d felt a little better, a little steadier. But, thinking about it now… it still seemed wrong and the rest of the conversation seemed like background noise by comparison. He seemed to remember Hinata making some stupid joke about his clothes and it hadn’t been funny at all, but it had ended with Hinata giving him his shirt so it wasn’t all bad. Seeing Hinata's bare chest hadn't been bad either. He'd seen it before and he'd thought about it a _lot_ before, during those days they'd all been together on this island. About Hinata's nipples and rise of his belly button and the faint scattering of barely there hair that trailed down his stomach.

Hinata had shaken the shirt at him impatiently, demanded he put it on and so he had. Had stripped off his parka and his bloody t-shirt and tossed them aside and sat there naked for a moment, marveling at the way Hinata averted his eyes, the way that dark flush had spread across his cheek and neck, how... good it had felt that he was the reason Hinata blushed like that. He remembered making some snide, teasing remark when he plucked the shirt from his hand. He couldn't even remember now what it was, just that he'd wanted to see Hinata blush more. Wanted to see him embarrassed, flustered. There was a conversation, maybe, he couldn't remember what was said, but he remembered wanting him. Wanting this Hinata with his blushes and awkwardness and his excuses. How it had made him feel... good, maybe, powerful, like he was something... special. To be able to make Hinata react like that.

It had been for too short a time like his very best fantasies in that way. Not the usual ones, the dirty ones, the ones where he begged for Hinata's attention and he reluctantly gave it, the ones that were all about getting off. No, this was more like the ones he thought about when he was curled in on himself in the dead of night. When he'd woke up sniveling and lonely and he liked to lay there and pretend that they were... friends. Or friendly at least and maybe something more besides. Those pathetic, sentimental nonsense fantasies. The way Hinata had looked at him as they'd spoken had been just like that. Like he'd... like he'd _wanted_ him, maybe, even if he didn't necessarily _want_ to want him. That was okay, that was exactly right after all, because why would Hinata want to want him? He wouldn't, _of course_ , he wouldn't. So it was more... realistic this way, closer maybe to what it would have been if he were... if he were...

It had been... nice to feel wanted though even if it wasn't real or true and it was almost fun, so much as anything was ever fun really. At least he thought it was now. Maybe. Whatever it had been, he'd wanted to keep that gaze, that interest, the way those eyes had felt skimming over him. The rest was static and noise and it didn't matter so long as Hinata would just keep looking at him like that. He thought that if he just did the right thing, said the right thing, that maybe Hinata might even reach out and touch him if he could just... just....

Then there had been that pain, that terrible pain when he’d touched the wound in his belly and everything had been black and white and wrong and he thought maybe he had screamed, but he couldn't be sure because it had seemed like the whole _world_ had been screaming. Like there was static in his brain, harsh and loud, and it had been worse than drowning or suffocating or dying. There hadn't been anything but the pain. A pain like rage and hate and fear and a thousand emotions he didn't know or want and feeling them all at once. He couldn't help shuddering even just remembering it, an involuntary reaction like his weak, pathetic body remembered that pain and feared it even if he couldn't.

And then Hinata's hands had been there, pulling his fingers away from the wound, drawing him back away from that terrible place and reminding him that he had fingers that he had a body at all when a moment before there had been nothing but that pain, such complete, devastating, screaming torment. And it hadn't been like that before, it hadn't. It hadn't. When Hinata had touched him it had been... good. He knew that. He knew that. And yet this had been... awful. So awful that he ached with the memory of it. And Hinata had held him close like he mattered and that hurt too in a completely different way. To have this cruel fantasy hold him like he mattered, as if anything really mattered at all when it _didn't_. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered and nothing was real and he didn't understand _anything_. He didn't... he didn't...

Hinata’s fingers had swept through in his hair, easing him through the aftermath. Gentle, so desperately foolishly gentle that it made him feel vaguely ill because he didn’t _want_ that. It didn't mean anything. It wasn't real. And he just kept speaking, whispering soft, sweet little lies that were irritating, irritating, _irritating_. And he hadn't wanted to listen to this Hinata talk anymore. All he did was talk. Talk and tease and disappear and make him feel worse and worse and _worse_.

He was so tired. He was desperately tired of all of this. It was pathetic. It was pathetic that he needed this. Needed some cheap, tawdry delusion to stroke his hair and tell him everything was okay. So weak. Such hopelessly pathetic trash he was. It wasn't okay. Nothing was okay. He wasn't _okay_. Sometimes he thought he'd never, ever, ever been okay. And he should _know_ that.

“It’s _not_ ,” Nagito hissed, pressing his face against Hinata's chest which was warm and a little sweaty in the best possible way and once the words started tumbling out, he couldn't have made them stop even if he'd wanted to. “You make me sick. Your lies make me sick. Why won’t you just do what I want you to do? What you want to do? You’re here, aren’t you? Why are you even here if you’re not going to be what I want? If you’re here to make me feel good then do it. If you’re here to hurt me than hurt me. What are you even here for if I have to do all the work?”

“I don’t-“

“Liar, stop lying, just stop _lying_ to me, don’t you think I know what I want? I _know_ what I want,” Nagito rasped, short, scrapping blunt nails over his bare shoulders, over his back, drinking in the way Hinata’s body lifted up into his touch, the stuttering moan that tumbled from his lips as he closed his eyes.

Beautiful.

“Yes, like that," he groaned. Hinata's nipples were hard and brown, and he wanted to lick them, bite them, but he settled for running a trembling thumb over one. "That’s what I want to hear from you. I’m tired of arguing with myself. It’s _boring_. It’s such a hopeless thing to argue with oneself. You can never really win.”

“I don’t understand anything you’re saying,” Hinata panted and Nagito dug blunt fingernails as deep as he could Into Hinata's chest and dragged them across, admiring the deep red gashes he left behind and enjoying the way Hinata moaned and arched into his touch. “I don’t understand you at all.”

Nagito leaned back and away so he could smile at him. It felt bitter and tight though he wasn’t at all sure that he felt either of those things really. Not really. “You never did, nothing new there. Just touch me, _Hinata_. Just touch me. Don’t you want to hear me moan for you again?”

And for a moment Hinata just stared at him and then something in his expression shifted. Something he couldn't quite place or name, but it seemed distinctly unimpressed.

“Beg me for it,” Hinata replied conversationally and he seemed different, wrong as he shoved him back against the wall, climbing into his lap, aggressive and brisk. one hand diving under the shirt to drag rough and angry fingers over his dick. There was nothing tentative or trembling or meek about Hinata suddenly. Nagito whimpered, dug his fingers into the sheets and squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn't sure how he'd... what it was exactly that had... but he didn't... this _wasn't_ his Hinata. This wasn't even a good imitation. This was...

Hinata's voice had been cool and commanding in his ear, his fingers still rough and vindictive, "Moan for me."

And he had and though he was pretty sure it was half sob it had seemed to satisfy.

"Luck. Such a useless, tawdry, pathetic talent, hardly worthy of consideration. How lucky do you feel right now, hm? If you want me inside you, you'll beg me for it. Tell me how much you need me, how empty you are without me, how unworthy you are, but how much you need it anyway. Do it."

Hinata sat back, releasing him and kneeling up a little so he wasn’t quite resting on his thighs any longer.

Nagito swallowed hard, staring into Hinata’s face, suddenly so open and at odds with the voice that had been spitting distain in his ear. “I want you to.”

“Well, I don’t want me to,” Hinata whispered weakly and his breathing had been fast and uneven, not quite a pant, but close. So different. So completely different than he'd been a moment before.

“Just a little,” he had found himself saying in a gentle encouraging, coaxing voice he hardly recognized. It felt like swallowing broken glass and he hadn't felt desperate, but he'd found himself following Hinata's orders anyway. “I know I’m the lowest of the low and trash such as I shouldn’t be asking favors, but it wouldn’t hurt just to touch it a little, would it? Just at the edge, just for a moment. Please?”

And then Hinata’s finger was there, tracing around the wound and it felt like a reward for a job well done because it was just like it had been before. Right and perfect except it also hurt a little, just a little, in exactly the right way. Not like that rough hand on his dick from before which had mostly just hurt even if it had been good enough to turn him on enough to want this again. And he's pretty sure he moaned and then everything became too fast and confusing and too much and not enough all at once. Hinata’s fingers are inside him again, slipping and sliding and twisting and at the same time Hinata licked and sucked his way into his mouth like he belonged there and the moan turned into a sob. Because this, _this_ was what he wanted. He opened his mouth wide and wider still; thrust his own tongue out to meet Hinata’s and kissing was confusing. He could feel the strain in his lips and jaw from keeping his mouth open so wide and he could feel a little bit of saliva slipping down his chin, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Couldn’t get enough because the kiss was never deep enough or wet enough and he just wanted more and more and more and he sucked hard on Hinata’s tongue and hoped he’s doing it right or at least right enough.

It was pathetic.

How badly he’d wanted him.

Any way he could have him.

How willing, eager, he'd been to beg for scraps from his table.

He’d been so frantic with it that he’d forgotten it wasn’t real. He couldn’t keep the script at all with that imaginary Hinata’s tongue in his mouth and then against his throat and he thought he’d begged and squirmed and been trying to make quick work of his pants with hands that had suddenly grown clumsy and nervous. Like it meant something. Like _they_ were… something.

He’d just wanted to get a hand on his dick so badly as if that would make any difference at all, but it was hard to keep the script when he wanted something so much. It always had been even without the delusions and the death to complicate matters. He had a hard enough time keeping a handle on things, keeping his mind under control on even his best days. But… it was hard to keep track of exactly what he was supposed to be focused on, because sometimes his emotions seemed to flee like frightened rabbits and sometimes he didn’t care and sometimes he did and sometimes he just took what he wanted. And sometimes he was in it and present and everything was actually there and he was there and he could feel something like joy edging in because this was different and new and….

And he was…

He could…

Then he felt Hinata’s hand sliding between them, beneath the shirt and over the curve of his hip and he was reminded violently of the rough, harsh touch from before and it made him angry, angry because that hadn’t… that wasn’t….

It wasn’t real.

None of this was real.

_Hopeless._

He was really _hopeless_.

He snatched a handful of Hinata’s hair and jerked him backwards. Hinata screamed, he was sure of that, startled and pained and he just hadn’t cared about that. He still doesn’t care. He'd used his hold on Hinata’s hair to pull him back, back and away. To force him to the floor beside the bed, because that hadn't been his Hinata. Not at all and he gripped his hair tighter, rage had made him cruel even if it hadn't made his body any less interested in the whole production.

“Just a pale imitation, just desires painted on an empty canvas. Every inch the disappointment and you inspire not even the tiniest iota of hope. I understand now. You’re just here to add to my despair. Maybe that’s what I feel when you’re inside me, not pleasure, just the satisfaction of having things I always knew true fulfilled. Maybe that’s what it feels like when all the hope is gone and there’s nothing left but despair,” Nagito commented and it felt for a moment like he had spoken from years or miles away, but the distance didn’t make it any easier and his dick had still been throbbing, painfully hard, and that had been irritating too. He released his hold on Hinata’s hair, shoving back a little as he drew his borrowed shirt up and held it crumpled and damp against his belly. He sighed and leaned back a little to snatch the bandage he’d discarded from the bed. He hadn't been looking forward to the chaffing, but he had wanted to come and needs must.

“Komaeda, I…”

He’d forgotten for a second that that fake Hinata was still kneeling on the floor where he'd left him. He glanced down at him and it… had somehow it had never even occurred to him that when he’d steered him back off the bed he’d forced him down between his legs. He certainly hadn't minded it. After all, Hinata, even a terrible fake Hinata, made a very nice picture kneeling between his thighs like that. “You don’t have to, of course,” Nagito commented distractedly, winding the bandage back around his palm and tucking in the loose end before sliding his hand around his dick, pumping slow and loose. “I can finish this way instead. It’s pretty much the same thing anyway. You might as well go, hm? This is about where you came in.”

His thumb slid over the head and Hinata shifted his gaze demurely to the floor.

“This is really wrong.”

“Is it?” Nagito replied, already distracted enough that he’s only half focused on his reply because what did it really matter? He’s only talking to himself anyway. He wasn’t going to last long at all if Hinata kept kneeling there looking up at him like that. “I don’t know that someone who still has my blood all over his hand really has much room to talk about what’s wrong and what isn’t. Or is it that it’s fine for you to be inside someone like me, but perhaps I’m too filthy to be inside you? I suppose I could understand that reasoning.”

“No, it’s not… it’s not that, I… dammit, Komaeda, you don't make any sense at _all_.”

“Don’t I? Th-that’s… uh… funny, isn’t it? I-I’m close, I'm really close,” Nagito murmured, voice hoarse, because he was. So close and he shut his eyes so he can focus on something besides Hinata’s face and how he really, really wants to come on him again. Even though it isn’t him. Not really.

Then something wet and distinctly not covered in gauze slides across him, right up the slit and he gasps and opens his eyes, startled, to find himself looking down just as Hinata’s head leaning forward and wrapping his… oh.

_Oh._

He trembled and Hinata’s mouth was… he knew it wasn't… wasn't… but…

He slid shaking fingers around the back of his bowed head and it’s almost enough just looking at him, just feeling him, tentative and almost too gentle. And he wanted… him. He just… wants him.

_You want him? Why not take him?_

“Curiosity killed the cat, you know,” he heard himself say and Hinata rolled his eyes up at him and his lips were still wrapped around him, his tongue still flicking an almost frantic rhythm against him. His eyes were so wide, vulnerable.

And then he’d knotted his fingers in Hinata’s hair and shoved his dick down his throat and it had felt amazing. Bumping over his tongue, his teeth a painful scrap across him made all the sweeter because it was Hinata. And he was having trouble remembering again, the knowledge of Hinata's reality flickered inconsistent in his mind like old neon.

He laid back against the bed, closing his eyes and picturing that moment again. Hinata’s eyes so wide and panicked and surprised, the way it had felt to thrust inside him. How Hinata’s eyes had rolled as he came, screaming around him and digging desperate fingers into the cuts in his thighs as his hips jerked and twitched and how he’d tumbled after, groaning and losing it within the warmth of Hinata’s mouth as much from being inside him as from watching him come.

And then Hinata was gone.

Just… gone.

His brain couldn’t even be bothered to extend the fantasy long enough for his heart to slow, for his breathing to even out before leaving him alone again without even that cheap copy for company.

He shivered and curled in on himself on Hinata’s cold empty bed.

He thought about that voice again as he tugged at the blanket and crawled underneath, pulling it over his head. It wasn’t so bad under there. Under there it was dark, really dark, and between the blanket and the sheets and shirt it smelled more like Hinata and laundry detergent than it did anything else and that wasn’t terrible.

_You want him? Why not take him?_

He didn’t like that voice, didn’t like how familiar and strange it was, how it made him feel, like there were cold invasive fingers wriggling about in his chest just waiting to rip him open, to spread him wide and expose the truest heart of him. To expose the real Komaeda Nagito, the one who was him, but not quite. The one that had lost himself in despair; he didn’t want to know that person, couldn’t know that person. If he knew that person than he wouldn’t be… he wouldn’t be….

What was the point?

Why even fight it?

Why….

The shirt Hinata had given him was white and crisp and if he pulled it up around his face and pressed his face to the collar it smelled a little damp and sweaty and a little… a little bit like Hinata. Maybe.

He curled in on himself, tucking his knees up against his chest and touched the pristine lapels gently, gingerly. The shirt itself was already marred by blood, but he thought the lapels were clean still, a little stiff. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever actually touched Hinata’s shirt… before. He thought so, maybe, during those first days when Hinata still let him close, back when he seemed to like and trust him. They’d sat close together several times during those first days and it had been… nice. He’d thought he might not mind if Hinata killed him, he was dying already after all, probably, and if he could put that death to good use then why not?

Why not?

But, of course, Hinata didn’t, because Hinata wouldn’t.

Really, the shirt had been a really nice touch.

He could almost, almost, _almost_ believe that it was…

Which wasn’t…

Obviously, it wasn’t…

But…

It was stupid, really.

To think, even for a minute, that a shirt meant anything.

So _stupid_.

He was so stupid.

Oh.

 _There_ they were.

Those pesky misplaced emotions.

Tears streamed down his face as he gasped, burying his fingers in Hinata’s sheets. His chest was an aching open wound and it had nothing to do with that hole left by the spear. It had all seemed so real that he’d almost believed it. Believed in those arms that held him and those words and the way Hinata had kissed him. Like he was wanted, needed, necessary, vital… all the things he knew he’d never been to anyone, not even his parents.

Probably.

Maybe.

And especially not Hinata.

He lay under that blanket for a long time.

And, try as he might, he couldn’t extinguish that niggling doubt, that fragile, tenacious spark of hope that had him buttoning up the shirt before he finally fell into an exhausted sleep.

He woke up on the beach with sand in his mouth and the sunlight beating down painfully against his bare legs and arms.

He was naked except for Hinata’s now damp and muddy shirt.

The laughter didn’t hurt nearly as much this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And in case it isn't obvious (I'm a terrible gauge on the obvious sometimes) the mixed pronouns in the beginning of this chapter are there on purpose. Just FYI.


	5. Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which commonalities are revealed and Hajime can't stop talking about Komaeda, even when he really, really wants to.

_“You're always you, and that don't change, and you're always changing, and there's nothing you can do about it.”_  
― Neil Gaiman, The Graveyard Book

 

  
**DAY TWO**  
-continued-  
**+++**

Sleeping with someone was strange, Hajime decided as he emerged reluctantly from his deep and dreamless sleep the next morning to the hum of Komaeda’s pod and the soft snoring of Sonia beside him.

He’d been an only child and never had close friends. Definitely none close enough for slumber parties or sleepovers or anything like that. He seemed to remember, in a distant hazy sort of way that centered mostly around the idea of warmth, sleeping between his parents sometimes when he was very small, but it was a vague enough memory that it could just as easily have been something he'd read in a book at some point and just incorporated into his own life to help fill in some of the blanks. And there were blanks. Wide gaping holes like his brain was made of Swiss cheese, but he tried not to let that bother him too much.

He had more pressing problems than a few missing childhood memories, after all.

Sonia shifted restlessly beside him, murmuring in her sleep, but since she didn’t sound scared or distressed he left her to it. His shoulder ached from having stayed on the one side all night and his mouth felt incredibly disgusting, but most of all… he really needed to pee. He opened his eyes slowly, gingerly, to find the eerie green glow of Komaeda’s pod and the darkened room. He could just see the pale light of morning peeking beneath the heavy curtains over the windows, but it was dim though he wasn’t sure if that was because it was really early or maybe the curtains just worked really well.

The room still smelled vaguely awful, but for the worst of the stench seemed to have dissipated overnight which was better than he expected if he were honest. He sat up and slid out of the bed, trying hard not to disturb Sonia since she seemed to be sleeping so peacefully. She yawned and stretched, turning over and struggling down in the warm space he left behind the moment he was out of the bed, but she didn’t wake. Despite his best efforts his bare feet still seemed tremendously loud against the tiled floor as he padded from the room out into the hall beyond. They’d had to block off all the bathrooms in the individual rooms in order to fit the pods inside, which left him with the choice of going to the public one out in the hall or climbing over Komaeda’s pod into the private bathroom in the room. He was pretty sure he was never going to be for climbing up and over Komaeda’s pod so the public bathroom in the hall it was.

The reek of vomit hit him the second he stepped out into the hall and he remembered that Sonia had set everything out here the night before. He didn’t want to imagine what anyone might have thought if they’d passed by in the night. He could clean it probably, take it to the laundry or something, but he really needed to take that leak first.

The hall was quiet and his footsteps seemed to echo far louder than they should through all that empty space. He’d always thought of hospitals as cluttered spaces, full of wheelchairs and gurneys and equipment, but there just wasn’t much to the hospital really outside of the necessities. He wondered if they’d just taken all the really expensive or portable stuff with them when they went, those people who’d been able to escape Despair. The people who hadn’t died here, wandering the deserted halls like this it almost seemed like he could here them, like a murmur of sound from a distant room, just out of sight. Not loud enough to be distinct, but just enough to be heard like ghosts in the machine. He shivered, rubbing a hand over his bare arm. The air conditioning in there was really something, it had seemed warm enough the day before when they were moving the pods in and afterwards, but today it was almost cold.

The bathroom was the same one he’d used last night when he was chopping off his hair and it showed. He hadn’t bothered to clear up before he’d left the room with Akane so there was still hair strewn all over the tiled floor. In retrospect, that had actually been kind of a really rude thing to do, kind of gross too, really. He hoped none of the others had been in and seen it. He shut the door behind him and starred down at the uneven hanks and chunks that littered the floor, thick enough that in the dark they’d probably look like roaches or mice skittering across the pale, cracked tile. He hadn’t noticed before, but the bathroom was in pretty rough shape.

Once he’d finished using the toilet and washed his hands in the ice-cold water that poured out into the sink, he turned his attention to cleaning up the hair. He could tell easily enough what he’d cut and what Akane had trimmed for him. Her cuts were smooth and even, he’d taken those scissors and just hacked away at the mess much like one might wield a machete to cut down brush in a jungle. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled across the floor, sweeping the larger chunks into a loose pile before picking it up and shoving it in the wastebasket. It was still gross and there were still plenty of little tufts and strands of hair littering the floor, but he figured that was probably good enough until he’d had a chance to eat and shower and track down a broom.

He paused before he left to look in the small mirror over the sink, to really study his appearance for the first time. Last night he’d been so hyper-focused on the hair that he hadn’t really even taken in the rest. The sharper angles of his face, the intensity of his eyes, how they were red now instead of green and it felt like he was missing a joke there. Something about traffic lights. Red means stop. It’s not a funny joke. His too thick, tangled black hair hangs bushy and kind of ridiculous around his face, He looks ridiculous and that somehow makes the changes easier to take. He wonders if Akane had done it that way on purpose or if was just a happy accident and assumes it, like most things, is a little bit of both. Still, he doesn’t feel like Hinata Hajime and even less so looking at himself.

He remembers the long talk he had with Sonia as she told him about her experiences with Gundham, with Enoshima and Komaeda. He didn’t have any of those memories not really, wasn’t certain whether he’d actually known any of them as Izuru. He knew he hadn’t known Komaeda, they’d been strangers on the container ship. He thought, as he stared at his reflection, that he had just the vaguest hint of a memory like an overexposed film clip of Mikan above him, sweating profusely, feverish maybe, her long hair flowing around her, sticking to her damp skin. Of watching the way her breasts bounced as she rode him, her mouth wide open as she brought herself to completion again and again. Incapable of shutting up it seemed, he remembered thinking about killing her, slitting her throat. Whether she’d still be fingering herself so frantically, bouncing on his cock so methodically even while she gargled and choked and bled out all over him.

Hajime threw up in the little sink, heaving and spiting acid and bile into the cracked porcelain, no trace of food left to soften the burn. As he flicked on the water to wash the sickness away, the taste lingered in his mouth just as those faded images, those disjointed thoughts, lingered in his head. He scooped up some water in his hands and swished it around his mouth to try and get the lingering taste out of his mouth. It didn’t help much, but it was better than nothing. He wished he could rinse his brain as easily. Was that how Izuru had been? Or was that just his imagination playing tricks on him, dreaming up worst-case scenarios. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to believe that might be true after the last few dreams he’d had about Komaeda, but….

What he’d done with Komaeda had been _different_ or, at the very least, it had _felt_ different. It was difficult to define why exactly except that he’d wanted it, even the bad parts, the scary parts; he’d been into it. He didn’t like that he’d been into it, it had made him feel terrible, made him feel a little sick, but… he… he could admit to himself that he’d definitely been into it.

He wasn’t into _that_. Not even a little. The idea of taking advantage of Mikan, of thinking of hurting her like that, made him want to just be sick forever and ever and the oil slick feel of those thoughts had seemed like vintage Izuru.

He wasn’t Izuru.

He most definitely wasn’t Izuru.

But he was beginning to think that maybe… maybe he wasn’t quite Hinata Hajime either.

The person he’d been in the game hadn’t thought like this. Hadn’t wanted the things he did. Hadn’t wanted to hurt and be hurt. Hadn’t felt so disconnected from his past, from the things he had done and the person he’d been before he came to Hope’s Peak. Everything he’d been before that day… just didn’t seem to matter much anymore, if it ever had. All that really mattered to him now were his friends and what happened from here. He didn’t really care about those faceless warm people who had been his parents. He had no idea if they were alive or dead and… it didn’t matter. Maybe he would eventually, but right now… there was nothing. He felt like he was a snake shedding an ill-fitting skin. He wondered if that was the reason he kept dreaming of him, whether he was using Komaeda as a crutch to peel back all these layers of the boy he had been, to reveal who he was beneath the skin a piece at a time. Whether the next time he woke up he’d even recognize himself at all.

Once a long time ago he’d been a boy with green eyes, insecure and terrified of being just ordinary. A boy who had willing sacrificed himself on the alter of hope to become something more.

Once not so long ago he’d been a red-eyed monster who’d killed hundreds, maybe thousands of people. A monster that found everything and everyone dull and boring and utterly devoid of hope; that valued only his own brilliance, his monstrous talent and potential.

He didn’t remember what it was actually like to live either of those lives very well.

Today he was a red-eyed boy who dreamt about getting off while fingering his comatose friend’s wounds while said comatose friend moaned his name and he kind of wanted to bash his face against the stupid mirror just to see whether the pain or maybe just the act of shattering that unfamiliar image of himself would make him feel better about it.

He didn’t, in the end, bash his face against the mirror.

Instead he turned on the water and leaned a hand against the wall as he jerked off into the low sink thinking about the way Komaeda had said his name.

Not in any of his dreams, but instead of the way he’d said it on the island that last time, the mocking derision in his voice.

He stood there for a few moments after, watching the water sweep away the evidence and wondering if he’d feel better if he just accepted that he was kind of a freak now before he tucked his softening dick back in his filthy pants and washed his hands again. He glanced in the mirror one last time at his red, red eyes and his tangled, too long black hair and this face he barely recognized.

He really was hopeless.

The sheets and trash bin were still sitting in the hallway outside his room waiting for him, but he had a better idea about how to deal with them now.

He was pretty sure that every real hospital had to have an incinerator for toxic waste disposal so he grabbed the entire disgusting pile and hauled it with him to the stairs.

The room was easier to find than he expected and the incinerator was already running, a low hum of sound and a bright green light indicating it was ready for use, when he arrived. Like it had been expecting him. Or maybe it was just always on, maybe Togami of the pithy insults and arrogant attitude had been up and around fixing things this morning and turned it on. He didn’t want to think about why the incinerator might qualify as a necessity and therefore one of the first things to be fixed. He couldn’t help but wonder if that meant that maybe there were still people here somewhere, driven insane by despair, hiding in the walls or basement. Or maybe there had been and they had died there and hadn’t been found when the island had been cleaned up and they would stumble upon a desiccated corpse every once in a while in an unused hallway or in a corner behind a pile of moldy boxes. At least then the mystery of the incinerator would be explained, as it would make for a convenient way to dispose of a body.

Damn but he was in a morbid sort of mood this morning.

He opened the machine’s door and shoved the whole mess inside, trash bin and all and slammed the door shut before pressing the button and leaving the incinerator to deal with it.

When he got back to Komaeda’s room, Sonia was sitting up in the middle of his bed, yawning and blinking owlishly in the sickly green light.

“Good morning,” he commented, slipping back into the room and crossing to sit beside her on the bed.

She offered him a tired smile, “Good morning, my friend.”

“You sleep okay?” He asked, keeping his tone even and pleasant.

“Quite well, all things considered. Thank you very much for the company. Any more dreams?”

“No. You?”

“No, nothing that I remember at any rate,” she replied, stretching. “Do you know I’ve never slept beside anyone before?”

“Really?”

“Truly. Or at least not in so far as I am able to recall at this time, so I assume not. It was really a very interesting experience and I was glad to share it with you.”

“Yeah, me too,” Hajime yawned. “You hungry? Want to go grab something to eat?”

“Certainly and then I would very much like a shower.”

“Yeah, same here.”

Sonia frowned, “Please do not take this as a criticism, but you seem different this morning.”

“Do I?”

 _Of course, I do. I've been systematically killing Hinata Hajime in my sleep,_ he doesn't say.

“Yes, more… I am not quite certain what the correct phrase for it is. At peace with yourself, perhaps?”

 _That’s a kind way to describe it._ He doesn't say that either.

He shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know, maybe.”

“Then we should be going, I suppose.”

“Yeah, I’ll, um, would you mind waiting for me? I’ll be along in just a minute.”

“Certainly. I will take this time to take full advantage of the facilities. I shall meet you in the hall shortly.”

“Thanks.”

The door swung shut quietly behind her and left him frowning at Komaeda’s pod. He felt stupid, but…

“Hey, I’m gonna go grab some breakfast. Some coffee, too. It’s probably terrible, but something is better than nothing, right?”

He wasn’t sure why he paused like he expected an answer.

This was stupid.

He was pretty sure talking to your comatose friend like you expected him to answer was only slightly above talking to yourself with the same expectation on the metric scale of crazy. But he didn’t really know any other way to do it that didn’t make him want to scream and scream and never stop.

And if… if he were in that pod… he’d want someone to talk to him even if it seemed awkward and stupid and crazy.

Maybe not so much the guy who’d gotten off thinking about him not ten minutes before, the guy who was dreaming all kinds of weird things about him. That part was probably pretty weird. But realistically it wasn’t like Komaeda was knee-deep in better options.

“I’ll be back soon, okay? If you wake up while I’m gone, I’ll… I’ll be back soon so, um, don’t go back to sleep. Okay, uh, bye.”

Ugh. So stupid.

And, really, exactly who in the hell did he think he was kidding? He was going to avoid coming back here for as long as he could manage without it looking weird looks or drawing awkward questions.

+++

“Must I take the lot of you and lead you by the hand to the shower facilities or do you think you can manage yourselves?” Togami grumbled, glaring at them over the top of his glasses as Hajime and Sonia came into the break room. He was sitting at the small table in the center of the room in front of several neat stacks of paperwork, a red pen clutched between his fingers so he looked like nothing so much as a young, excessively over-dressed, ill-tempered university professor. “Honestly, I could smell you coming long before you arrived.”

Kirigiri, who was sitting beside him sipping her tea, didn’t even bother to look over at him. Her expression remained blank and emotionless even as she took another sip of her tea and reached out and punched him in the shoulder with her free hand.

Naegi, who was leaning against the counter next to the toaster, sighed and smiled apologetically in the way of someone who was used to being the polite social convention representative for someone as blunt as Togami and as stoic as Kirigiri. “I can show you guys where the showers are if you want after you’ve had something to eat. I think the hot water is even working now, though it seems to kind of come and go. Though you should feel free to make use of it only when you feel you’re ready. And please don’t mind him, he’s really not a morning person.”

“That’s absurd,” Togami murmured, taking a sip of his coffee and going back to flicking through the stack of papers in front of him, slashing out words seemingly at random. “Just because I don’t enjoy the stench of unwashed commoners and sex in the morning-”

“Oh? Is that really the route you wish to take with this argument?” Kirigiri commented, sipping her tea as she reached out to carefully flip over the document she’d been perusing. She managed to make the maneuver look effortless, a neat trick for someone wearing thin black, leather gloves. “I have several months worth of antidotal evidence which speaks to the contrary.”

Togami scowled down at his papers, determinedly not looking at her as he answered. “And I’m quite certain you wouldn’t be willing to divulge that evidence in mixed company so I hardly see why _that_ is relevant to this conversation.”

“That might certainly be true in many circumstances, but you’ll find in these particular circumstances with the present audience and in light of your earlier remarks that I don’t have any compunctions in that regard.”

“I might like to put that claim to the test,” Togami snapped, finally glancing up from his paperwork to meet her gaze directly with an imperious scowl, his back rigid.

“Oh my god, stop, it’s too early for this,” Naegi protested, a note of pleading in his voice that earned himself a glare from Togami and a cool, assessing look from Kirigiri. “As much as I really enjoy you guys playing intellectual chicken with my private life like I'm not standing _right here_ , I’d really rather you just… not. Seriously. Let me take care of them. You guys go… I don’t know, go argue about politics in the post-Despair era or that Murakami novel you’re reading or just _anything_ else. _Anywhere_ else. I’m _begging_ you.”

To Hajime’s amazement Kirigiri set her tea neatly aside and disappeared silently out the door, pausing briefly only to press her lips to Naegi’s cheek, whispering something in his ear that brought a slim smile to his face. She glanced over at Hajime and Sonia before she left, giving them each a small smile and a nod that seemed pleasant enough if not particularly friendly or personal.

Togami, on the other hand, downed the remains of his coffee, grimacing and took his time gathering and shuffling through his papers before slipping them into his attaché. There was something so brisk, stiff and offended about his movements that it was a little like hearing the rattle of a snake before it struck. Hajime found himself reaching out to catch Sonia’s hand and lead her over to examine the ancient stack of magazines near the sink, well away from any path that would put them between Togami Byakuya and the door. Their Togami Byakuya had really been _nothing at all_ like this Togami Byakuya.

Naegi ran a hand back through his hair and followed Togami out the door as he stormed from the room.

The door swung shut behind them and Hajime watched it for a long moment before making his decision. “I’m gonna see if I can hear them.”

“You intend to eavesdrop?” Sonia asked, sounding both intrigued and horrified.

He shrugged, “They’re not our friends. I think they’re good people, but… we really don’t know anything about them other than what they and Enoshima told us. It’d be stupid to just assume they’d tell us everything we need to know.”

“I suppose that is true and I will admit that I am curious.” Sonia sighed, allowing him to tow her to the door. He pulled it open just the barest crack and put his ear to it. Sonia ducked down and did the same. He was pretty sure they looked completely ridiculous, but it allowed them to hear their conversation well enough.

“-ever speak to me in such a manner again, particularly in front of them, I will have you fed to the dogs.”

“What kind of sense does that make as a threat? Where are you even going to _find_ dogs on the islands?”

“I could have them brought in.”

“Well, sure, if you’re still pissed at me by the time the storm is over the sat phone is back online. You could also have me carted off and thrown in an active volcano if you’re really in the mood to go full supervillian about it. Until then you’re stuck making do with what you’ve got just like the rest of us. Besides, you’re the one who started it. I don’t understand what your problem is. Did you really forget that most of us didn’t shower for almost a week after we left Hope’s Peak? Yourself included.”

“Hardly. That’s not an easy stench to forget.”

“That’s great, thanks for that. The point is you know it’s not easy. Stop treating them like they should just suck it up and be perfectly fine and normal.”

“And you need to stop treating them with kid gloves. How are they supposed to get back to anything approaching normal if you insist on _coddling_ them? The world is not going to be kind to them, Makoto. It’s going to be cruel and it’s going to be merciless. You’re not doing them even the least of favors. At least I’m not treating them like they’re made of fine china.”

Someone (probably Naegi) sighed heavily and it seemed to echo down the hall.

“Look, I know what you’re trying to do, but it’s not… it’s not going to be like it was for us. We’re not going to let that happen to them so, so just…”

“It would be a mistake to presume anything I do is for _their_ benefit.”

“I know, just… thank you. Can I…?”

There was a sharp intake of breath, strangely loud.

When Togami spoke next almost a minute last his voice was a little muffled, like he was speaking into fabric or they’d moved the conversation further down the hall. Something was different though and it wasn’t just Togami’s tone, which seemed tired in a way it hadn’t been a moment before, like something had knocked the spite right out of him. “Just… get them to shower or something. Even with communications down I still have plenty of work to keep me occupied.“

“Yeah, I figured. I’m going to go down later on and check to make sure everything is shut down and properly closed up on the central island in case the storm gets really bad.”

“Come and find me before you do and I’ll take you. I hardly trust your skills at the helm during ill-weather.”

“Are you _worried_ about me? That’s sweet.”

There was a muffled thump followed by soft amused laughter.

“Call me sweet again and see what happens to you. Later I’m going to…”

However that sentence ended, Hajime couldn’t hear it and he was grateful for that. He really didn’t want to know any more about their relationship than he’d already guessed at. He couldn’t imagine what type of person Naegi actually was that he was able to function in a relationship with this Togami Byakuya and actually appear to _enjoy_ it.

Of course, considering what he wanted to do with Komaeda and how unstable Komaeda was at the best of times he was pretty sure he didn’t have the market cornered on relationships no one wants to really know much about.

“I’m going to hold you to that. Go finish your paperwork, I’ll page you over the intercom if the phone comes back online.”

“Fine. Go manage your project,” Togami commented, his dress shoes snapping sharply against the tile floor as he walked away.

Sonia and Hajime ducked away from the door, both trying and probably failing miserably to appear anything close to nonchalant and uninterested as Naegi pushed back into the room.

He smiled and shook his head when he saw them awkwardly fiddling with the coffee pot as if they were interested in coffee. Which would have been easier if either of them knew how to actually _make_ coffee.

“It’s fine,” Naegi commented, pulling a stack of filters and a black can from one of the cupboards. “I don’t know that I would trust us either in your position. After all, even if it wasn’t our intention, we locked you in a computer simulation with Junko.”

“It is not that we do not trust you, Mr. Naegi.”

“Makoto is fine. Honestly, being called Naegi all the time kind of creeps me out these days.”

“Because of the killing game?” Hajime asked bluntly, earning himself a shocked look from Sonia.

Naegi on the other hand just gave him a tight smile, “Exactly. I had nightmares for months afterwards about Monokuma popping up in random places saying my name. It’s weird the things that stick with you.”

They both nodded as Naegi tipped ground coffee into the filter and dropped it in the machine before grabbing a bottle of water to fill up the glass pot before pouring that into the machine and turning it on. “Don’t drink the running water. It’s probably fine, but it’s better not to just in case. There’s a bunch of water bottles in the fridge over there and under the sink.”

The coffee pot gurgled and spat.

“I will keep that in mind,” Sonia murmured, more Hajime thought to fill the silence than because the comment really required an answer.

“I really am very sorry about all that. He really didn’t… okay, yeah, he really meant it, but that’s just kind of the way he is. With everyone, all the time, you either get used to it or you avoid him like the plague because he isn’t going to change. Would you like some cereal? There’s, um, no milk or anything, but…”

“Cereal would be great,” Hajime replied, a little grateful that it was something easy and, hopefully, bland. He wasn’t sure his stomach could handle more than that yet.

Naegi nodded and turned to pull open another cupboard and get down a couple of cereal boxes and a couple dusty bowls. “Um, the spoons are in that drawer over there, I think.” He commented, gesturing vaguely across the room. “So, we should be able to get a supply drop tomorrow or the next day. Right now there’s a storm rolling in so the sat phones are down so we can’t call anyone in to bring us anything.”

Sonia opened the drawer he’d indicated and pulled out a couple of spoons, handing one to Hajime. “I… I was wondering if I might, perhaps, attempt to contact my parents? If it is not too much trouble?”

Naegi smiled briefly at her, setting the cereal boxes and bowls on the table before snagging his half-empty mug from the table and leaning back against the counter beside the percolating coffee to wait. “I don’t see why not. If I were you, I wouldn’t get your hopes up though. A lot of utilities are down all over the world still, I imagine that’s probably true in your country as well, but you’re certainly welcome to try when the phones come back up.”

“I would still welcome the chance to make the attempt. Thank you very much, Mister… um, Makoto,” Sonia replied, smiling politely, seating herself at the table with her spoon and picking up one of the cereal boxes. It was pink with a cartoon bear on it. She stared at it for a few moments before nodding to herself and flipping open the top and shaking some of the cereal out into her bowl.

Naegi smiled back, a little sadly, as Hajime took his place at the table beside Sonia and frowned at the small collection of cardboard cereal boxes. None of them looked the least bit appealing. “I honestly just wish I could do more, but we weren’t able to find out a lot of information about any of you except Komaeda Nagito and Mioda Ibuki, I’m afraid. Would you like some tea or coffee?”

“Coffee would be delightful,” Sonia answered, patting Hajime’s hand as if she’d noticed that he’d startled at the unexpected mention of Komaeda’s name. When he looked over at her, she gave him a slim smile and a nod before turning her attention back to Naegi who Hajime noticed was watching them with the sort of pleasantly blank poker face that he’d probably picked up from Kirigiri. He had little doubt that Naegi had noticed his reaction and their exchange, but he couldn’t tell what he’d made of it or whether he’d mentioned Komaeda on purpose.

Sonia cleared her throat, bringing Naegi’s attention back to her as Hajime forced himself to pick up the plainest looking cereal box and shake some of it into his bowl. “I quite understand Ibuki, she was a bit famous, I believe, but why Komaeda?”

“Well, we had a little bit of information on all of you from your school records, but Komaeda’s situation was a little different.”

“Because he was sick?” Sonia inquired, before taking a bite of her cereal and chewing thoughtfully.

“No, well, not exactly,” Naegi replied, topping off his own coffee before pouring coffee for Sonia and Hajime and handing the chipped mugs to them carefully. He retrieved his own cup and took a sip, wincing a bit at the heat or the taste, but remained standing, leaning against the counter rather than taking a seat at the table with them. “We do have some of the medical records that were in his student file, but it was more because he was a bit famous himself. His life prior to his admission to Hope’s Peak was very eventful.”

Hajime felt his stomach sink and he pushed his cereal bowl away as what little appetite he had vanished with Naegi’s words. Beside him Sonia looked concerned, but mostly confused and he could practically see the question hanging on the tip of her tongue as she forced herself to take another bite of her cereal.

“His parents… they were killed on a plane,” his voice sounded gruff and pained even to his own ears.

“He told you?” Naegi inquired, that pleasant blank look lingering on his face and Hajime kind of wanted to hit him. “The plane was hit by a small meteor and had to make an emergency landing on a runway that was too short, he was one of the few survivors. Total freak accident, but I guess it was all over the news for months afterwards because of the strangeness of it and he was of particular interest to the media because his parents and a hijacker were killed by the meteor rather than in the crash itself. There were a lot of newspaper clippings in his file which is how we were able to piece together a lot of the details, but Kyouko recognized him from several news reports and case files she’d seen when she was a kid so that’s how we were able to find and identify all of you as Hope’s Peak students. It was lucky, I guess.”

How many of the other things that Komaeda had told him were true?

“My goodness, I did not realize…” Sonia murmured, her face sad.

“You couldn’t have known,” Hajime commented quickly, wishing he could say the same. “Even when he told me about it he said he was lying. He isn’t an easy person to know.”

“I suppose not,” Sonia replied, continuing to eat her cereal almost mechanically.

“Are the others up yet?” Hajime asked, turning his attention back to Naegi, eager for a change of subject.

Naegi shrugged, “Not that I’ve seen, but honestly I just woke up myself. Byakuya and Kyouko would have known better, they’re both early risers. Sorry.”

Silence fell between them as Sonia finished her breakfast slowly and methodically and Hajime drank his coffee.

The coffee was bitter and just shy of foul, but it suited his mood perfectly.

**+++**

The shower in the men’s locker room was dusty. Dusty and that the dust turned into a sort of slimy sludge that made the cracked tiles slippery beneath his feet as he stepped underneath the stream of water, spraying and spitting from the showerhead. The water was cold, just shy of freezing, but there was shampoo and conditioner and soap and even though the water was incredibly unpleasant it was still nice to be able to scrub the dirt and whatever else off. He stood near the door of his stall to scrub his filthy hair and score his body with soap and a rough sponge. His chest stung a little as he scrubbed the sponge across it and he frowned at the scraps and cuts there, Izuru must have done a really terrible job taking care of his body. His entire body seemed tender and bruised, knees, scalp, arms, everything hurt to one extent or another. He stepped back under the water to rinse the soap and shampoo away, cursing.

By the time he was finally finished showering his teeth were chattering painfully and his lips were probably blue, he still felt a thousand times better than he’d felt at any point since he’d fallen out of that pod as he shut off the water and grabbed the towel he’d draped over the stall door. He could hear Sonia showering still a few stalls down, the sounds of furious scrubbing loud in the otherwise quiet bathroom. Naegi had said he’d go tell the others where the showers were so they could get started and disappeared at the door with an apologetic smile. He’d offered to show Sonia to the women’s locker room, but she’d insisted that was unnecessary and Naegi had left them saying he was going to go check on the others and let them know where the shower rooms were.

“I hope my showering here does not make you uncomfortable,” Sonia had commented when they’d been alone in the locker room with their new clothes and towels and the bags of toiletries Naegi had handed them. “I should have asked….”

“No, it’s fine. You know I don’t mind.”

“I did not, truly, however, I appreciate your understanding. The idea of being alone and naked, showering in a strange place… I find the idea disconcerting. Is that strange?”

“No, at least I don’t think,” Hajime replied, turning his back to her and stripping off his shirt. “I think this entire place is kind of creepy.”

“It is comforting to know that I am not the only one. Everything seems to echo so strangely here. I don’t believe I’ve ever been somewhere that’s so… empty.”

“Yeah.”

The water shut off, summoning him from his thoughts. He quickly finished drying off so that, by the time Sonia emerged from her shower stall with her towel wrapped tightly around her, he’d managed to fumble his cold legs into underwear and pants. She offered him a small smile, “The water was… rather unpleasantly cold, wasn’t it?”

“That’s an awfully nice way of putting it,” Hajime laughed, turning his back so she could get dressed as he pulled his shirt on. “I feel like we should post a buyer beware sign on the door to warn the others.”

“Mr. Naegi did say the hot water came and went,” she replied, her smile evident in her tone. “I do believe he might have been exaggerating slightly, however, as there was rather an abundance of went.”

“There really was,” Hajime sighed. “So, what are you planning for the rest of your day?”

“Ah, I thought I should go back and spend some time with Gundham. I found several paperbacks when we were at the store so I thought perhaps I could read to him. They are all books I’ve read before, but there are one or two I believe he might enjoy.”

Hajime smiled, wincing as he yanked a brush through his hair. The conditioner had helped, but the tangles were still there, catching painfully on the bristles. “That sounds nice.”

“What about yourself?”

“Oh, um, I thought I’d go find Kazuichi. I know he’s probably going to want to check over the pods, so I thought I could help with that.”

“Very well, please say hello for me, although I am quite certain I will see you when you stop by to see to Gundham’s pod.”

“Yeah. I’m going to go ahead and head out.”

“Very well. I shall see you later, my friend.”

“Yeah,” he replied as he pulled the door open. He hesitated at the threshold though, not looking back in case Sonia wasn’t finished dressing, but needing to say it nonetheless. “Thank you for last night.”

“Think nothing of it, Hajime. You would do no less for any of us, I am quite certain.” She replied easily, much closer than he expected as her hand closed on his arm giving it a gentle squeeze. He looked back and met her steady blue gaze. She’s tied her long blond hair in an artless knot at the back of her head not even bothering with a brush. She smiled tightly at the direction of his gaze, “I thought I would ask Akane to help me with it. It’s a bit too badly damaged to manage on my own.”

“That’s a good idea. She’s good at that sort of thing.”

“Yes, she’s mentioned before that she’d been cutting her own hair since she was little and, honestly, I would like an excuse to spend time with her today that does not involve hours of exercise.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to help. She helped me with mine last night. I’ll see you later then?”

“Yes. Enjoy your day, Hajime.” Sonia replied, giving his arm a final squeeze before walking briskly away down the hall, her bare feet almost silent against the tiles.

After she was gone, Hajime turned away and walked through the silent hall the slap of his bare feet loud and echoing. He figured there was probably some trick to walking silently through these hallways like Sonia had, but damned if he could figure what it was as no matter how slow or fast or carefully he walked his footsteps seemed to echo just the same. He’d have to ask her about it later.

Instead of going to find Kazuichi like he’d originally intended, he found himself wandering outside instead. The pier was located right by the hospital down at the bottom of the cliff, the walkway down to it was a series of long ramps and platforms that had made it surprisingly easy to take the pods off the boat and push them up the ramps to the hospital. Presumably it had been built there to facilitate unloading emergency patients from the ferry.

He wondered vaguely if it was something that had always been there or if it was something that had been built recently. It looked old, like it had been there for years, but there was something about it that looked put on, strangely fake. Like someone had painted signs of wear over the newness of it to make it appear older than it was, but it was like painting over cigarette stains in an apartment. You could slap all the paint in the world on there, but the lingering scent always gave it away. Chances are it had been someone’s idea of a joke. He didn’t see the point, but someone had probably found it hilarious.

The pier stood empty except for an exceptionally forlorn looking dingy that bobbed along on the waves. A seagull perched on the lip of it, apparently unperturbed by the motion of the ocean. The considerably larger ferry they’d used to transport the pods was nowhere in sight. He hadn’t thought they’d been in the shower all that long, but apparently it had been long enough for Naegi to gather Togami and head out to the Central Island to do whatever they intended to do there.

Standing on the cliff’s edge looking out at the other islands he could see from that vantage point, it felt a little like he was the only person in the wide, wide world. He knew it wasn’t true. He knew he could just go back inside at any time and he’d find his friends waiting somewhere in those suffocating halls. But he just… wasn’t quite ready to go back yet.

Instead he stood out there on that cliff’s edge for a long time watching the clouds sweep slowly across the darkening sky until he thought he could see the ferry leaving the central island in the distance. He closed his eyes as the wind picked up and tossed his hair across his face. It wasn’t as terrible now that it was clean, but it still kind of gave him the creeps.

Maybe he should just shave it off.

Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance.

It wasn’t raining yet, but he could tell from the sharp tang of ozone on the wind and that it wouldn’t be long.

He kind of wanted to stay there, standing inches from the edge, and wait for the rain to come so that he could feel the weight of it on his skin.

To know that it was real, that this was real, that _he_ was real.

Maybe then he'd finally be able to believe it.

At odd moments all day it had felt like he was dreaming still.

Like at any moment he would hear Komaeda’s voice in his ear or feel the touch of his hand against the back of his neck.

It was stupid, but it was a feeling he could never quite shake.

 

 

**+++**

“Oh my gosh, you’re totally gay for Komaeda, aren’t you?” Kazuichi said, his eyes wide as saucers, dropping his wrench into the toolbox at his side.

“I’m pretty sure you could have found a more offensive way to phrase that if you had really, really tried, but you’d probably have to work at it,” Hajime replied, sighing and rolling his eyes. “But I guess so. I don’t know. I liked Chiaki, I think, but… I don’t know. I never had much interest in having any kind of sex with anyone before… at least not that I really remember. But I definitely think about Komaeda that way, obviously. I was attracted to him in the game too so… I guess so, maybe. I don’t know, probably. I probably am. I haven’t really thought about that part of it too deeply yet, I guess.”

“Oh, man, wow. Am I the first person you told?”

“No, Sonia knows. I told her about it last night.”

“So she really did end up sleeping with you last night? Ugh. Jealous.”

“It wasn’t like that, but yeah, she stayed the night in my room. Helped clean up after I threw up everywhere. She’s a good friend.”

“No doubt, no doubt. Miss Sonia is a wonderful person. Hey, since you’re gay now, can I tell you something?”

“Kazuichi, I’m not gay now, that’s really not how it works. If I’m gay I was always… I mean, really, I’m the same person I was yesterday. I don’t think you just wake up one morning and are just…”

“Sure, yeah, obviously, so,” Kazuichi replied quickly, waving away his words like he was only half-listening. “Am I gay if I have like the one sexy dream about someone?”

“What the hell makes you think I’m suddenly the resident expert on whether or not you’re queer?”

“Well, I mean don’t you have like queer radar or something? I mean….”

“Oh my… Kazuichi… _no_. Just… stop _talking_ ,” Hajime mumbled burying his burning face in his hands. Why? Why had he decided to talk to Kazuichi of all people about this? Clearly this had been a huge, huge, huge mistake. It had just seemed… easy or at least easier than talking to Akane or Fuyuhiko, because Kazuichi already kind of knew he’d been dreaming about Komaeda even if he hadn’t known what and he’d wanted to talk about what Naegi had told them, but he hadn’t wanted to bother Sonia and… _ugh_. He was such an _idiot_.

“Was that offensive again? Crap. Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just, it’s been bugging me and you told me about your thing, kind of, so… so I told you I had that dream about Gundham, right? Like before when we were still in the pods?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Right, right. So, so, right… so I didn’t really tell you everything or, I guess, anything really because it was so… I don’t know. It just… I didn’t know if you’d be okay with it, but it’s probably fine since you’re having gay dreams too.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake…”

“I know, I know, sorry. Okay, so I’m at the beach house and I can hear the shower running so I’m thinking maybe it’s one of the girls and, I know I shouldn’t have been, but I decided I’d just peek in, you know, just to see who it was. And it was _him_ and I mean… I always thought he was such a dork, you know, I mean when we were in the simulation. A really tough, scary dork- obviously- but still a total dork. It was just… he had those hamsters, right? And he was totally into those hamsters. I mean it’s hard to take anyone who loves hamsters seriously especially when he gave them such goofy names.”

“They weren’t really that goofy….”

“They totally were, come on. But so anyway, he’s in there showering and he’s totally naked and I didn’t think I’d ever seen him without the scarf before, but he’s standing there under the water and I’m looking at his back and he has this patch of scars on the back of his neck that go right down the middle of his back, I mean they were just massive. They were like thick and ridged and like scars on top of scars, or maybe they were burn scars or something, I don’t know, it was crazy. So, I’m staring at those scars and I’m thinking about how weird it is that I hadn’t seen them before, but they looked really familiar and then I realize that I knew them, I knew those scars. That I knew what those ridges felt like under my fingers, under my _tongue_ and I… I mean it was like this idea that I couldn’t shake. I’m just standing there watching him and the room is so friggin' cold that I’m not sure how the heck he can stand showering in there and, I mean, it’s not like I was getting off watching him or anything like that, I just… I just couldn’t leave.

“So eventually he turns the water off and he turns around and sees me and he looks so shocked and he says something like, I don’t know, ‘ _what manner of fiend are you to be able to sneak up on one such as I? I will cast you down into the lowest levels of hell for daring to take on such a familiar visage._ ’ Or some crazy thing like that, I mean, you remember how he talked. So, I’m like: ‘ _No, relax already, I just came to see you._ ’ Which wasn’t _really_ true, but it wasn’t really a lie either, I mean, it’s not like I didn’t _want_ to see him or anything. And he looked so freaking startled and his face was so red, it was almost, I don’t know, _cute_ , kinda. I mean- I always kind of hated him a little because he was getting all close to Sonia on the island, but… he was… I can remember him from before now too, at least a little, and I think he was always kind of like that, easily flustered and kind of awkward like that when he was complimented.

“He asked me to help out with something for this penguin he was looking after once. He wanted a portable refrigeration system because he was worried about it overheating because the owner didn’t seem to understand that penguins were an animal with a very delicate constitution and they needed like a really specific environment in order to thrive and so we worked together on it and, I mean, he always seemed like he was this really sort of outrageous guy and he made up all these crazy stories, but when it was just the two of us, when it was about his animals, he was… I don’t know, quieter, more normal maybe? A little bit, anyway. I mean, most people freaked me out, but he didn’t. Not when he was quiet like that. But I’m standing there looking at him and I can’t remember it exactly, but I can remember the way he would feel if we were to… it was just so _weird_. So we’re just standing there and he’s turned away and is getting dried off, but I can tell he’s watching me like out of the corner of his eye like he’s expecting me to make a move on him. Then he starts getting dressed and I know if I miss my chance I’ll never get another and I want to know… I want to know if I really… really remember that and I know how stupid it sounds, I mean, obviously if I think I remember it and I’m dreaming about it then it’s going to feel like I think I remember it. I mean, _obviously_ , but I guess in a dream sometimes maybe you forget stuff like that because it seemed really important. So I kind of lunge at him and he jumps back, falling into a fighting stance and I’m like, ‘ _whoa, whoa, I’m not gonna hurt you_ ’ and he looks confused again and it’s all ‘ _of course not, I would destroy you, but if you don’t want a fight then what do you want of me, hell-beast?_ ’ And I’m all, ‘ _I just want to touch the scars on your neck_ ’ and he looks at me for a really long time and then he just turns around and lets me. So, of course, I touch them and they’re… they’re just how I remember them and he’s all ‘ _don’t think you can tempt me with such intimacies, I have trained six lifetimes to withstand the lustful intentions of incubi as I traverse the levels of this hell in search of the creatures of darkness_ ’ whatever the hell that was supposed to mean and I’m thinking ‘ _you’re so friggin' nuts_ ’, but I mean… it was like a challenge, right? And really, I mean, jerking another guy off isn’t any different than jerking yourself off, especially in a dream, so I’m like, what the hell and I… put my hands on him and he’s…”

“Kazuichi… I really don’t know that I need to hear _all_ the details.”

“Oh, uh, right, obviously. So, I was gonna jerk him off, but I mean I’m standing really close to him now and I can see that he’s got all these wounds, like he just looks all tore up and so I just end up touching those instead and I’m like ‘ _you should really put something on these, they’ll get infected_ ’ and he’s all ‘ _no infection could survive in a body conditioned to withstand the venom of the great basilisk_ ’ and then we spent what seemed like hours standing in the shower arguing about that shit and then I woke up and… I just had the worst freaking morning wood I’ve ever had. It was ridiculous. And then, of course, I realized I was locked in the pod and that killed that pretty darn fast. I mean, I love girls, they’re soft and I mean… _boobs_! Boobs are _amazing_ and I mean, I like Miss Sonia and all so… I mean, I just… Gundham. I mean, how can I be into _Gundham_? So, what do you think? Does that make me gay or bi or whatever?”

“You know you call him by his first name, right?”

“Huh? Wh- shoot. What the freaking heck? I do, don’t I? How long have I been…?”

Hajime shrugged, “I don’t know. At least since we woke up. I didn’t really think about it, but you called him that when you were telling me about it before too.”

“That’s… that’s so messed up. Don’t tell anybody else, okay? I… I need to think about this some more.”

“Sure,” Hajime replied easily, tousling Kazuichi’s pink hair. “You know it’s okay, right?”

“Well, I mean, yeah, o-of course I do, just… my dad always used to call me…” he shook his head, shrugging and turning his attention to searching for something in his toolbox. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter, I just never thought I actually was, you know, gay or bi or whatever though. Guys just never really did for me, but I guess maybe they _did_ and I just don’t remember it yet. Or you know, like all of it anyway. It’s just… pretty crazy, I guess.”

“Yeah, I have a feeling we’re all going to find out we were all sorts of things we didn’t realize we were by the time we actually remember everything.”

“Yeah, probably. You doing okay with all this?”

“All what?”

“Everything, I guess.”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I stare in the mirror and I can’t quite believe it’s me looking back. I don’t…” Hajime trails off, glancing at Ibuki’s pod and frowning. He’s not sure why he can’t just say it. Why he can’t just tell him what he’s been thinking about all morning.

_…I don’t think I’m really Hinata Hajime, not really, not anymore._

_I don’t think I_ can _be._

_I don’t know if I ever really was._

_I’m not Kamukura Izuru either._

_So, maybe I’m someone else._

_Maybe the person I always really was._

_But it isn’t… I don’t know that it has to be… a_ bad _thing._

_But I’m sorry._

_I’m not who you think I am._

_Just say it._

_He’ll understand. They’ll understand._

_Just_ say _it._

“I don’t know,” he finishes finally, feeling like the worst kind of coward.

 _Dammit._  

**+++**

“Well, you look like shit,” Akane commented, never one to mince words, as she flopped down at the table beside him with a plate full of food and plastic bottle of milk.

He closed his eyes for a minute; fully aware that there was absolutely no reason he should throw up. It was just milk. Milk was just milk, it wasn’t anything else and he needed to stop being such a fucking freak about this, about everything. He needed to get it together.

“Like really, really awful. You wanna talk about it or something?”

“No.”

“Well, I do. So start talking already,” she commanded. “It isn’t good for your body to hold these things in. You gotta let it out. Just say what you need to say, it’s not like I’m gonna judge you for anything.”

“I’m having weird, fucked up wet dreams about Komaeda and honestly it’s freaking me out. Also, do you think you can maybe chug and toss that milk? Looking at it is making me nauseous.”

He hadn’t meant to say all that. He really, really hadn’t meant to say all that.

“No problem,” she replied easily and to his eternal surprise, he heard the plastic crack of a cap coming loose and the quiet glug of a bottle being emptied before the sharp sound of a plastic bottle hitting the trash bin resounded through the room. “All done. So just like standard sex stuff or was it the freaky stuff? I could totally see you being embarrassed by the freaky stuff. Doesn’t mean that’s who you are. I used to dream about some guy I liked from back home jizzing all over my tits. Dreams never hurt anybody, Hajime. Just the body flushing away your frustrations,” Akane commented, hunching over her plate so she could more easily continue to shovel food in her mouth as she spoke. It was kind of impressive how well she was managing to talk even though her mouth was full pretty much the entire time. “Seriously, you’re a nice guy and while plenty of nice guys do shitty things, I don’t think you’re one of those. Plus, you and Komaeda always had kind of a weird relationship. I wouldn’t be surprised if he really dug you dreaming freaky sex stuff about him. He was kind of super crazy so he might have been into all kinds of different stuff and he was definitely into you so it’s probably all good.”

“Everyone always says that. That Komaeda liked me, I mean.”

“Because it’s true. I was out late running like the first maybe the second night we were there and I was walking back to my cabin and I totally heard him whacking it and moaning your name. Hard to miss something like that, but even without that I’m sure everybody knew he was into you. You know he was too. It’s not like he was subtle about it.”

He wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to do with that and really the last thing he needed was that image in his head. “Um, thanks, I guess.”

“No problem,” Akane shrugged as she scrapped up the last of her noodles.

“Where’d you get all that anyway?” He asked gesturing to her plate.

“Oh, there were all kinds of instant foods in the kitchen; like just a ton of different stuff. So I just made up a bunch of different things and slapped it on a plate. I’ve gotta whole lot of meals to catch up on, after all.” Akane replied, slapping her stomach before cracking open a bottle of water.

“You’ll get there,” Hajime replied, offering her a weak smile. “How was your day?”

“Not bad. I went out this morning to run laps around the island. I was totally spent by the second lap so I pushed it through a third and went and took a shower. Hot water is broken, by the way. I can already feel my muscles tensing up like crazy. I’ve got a long way to go to get back in shape. I really wish Nekomaru were here to do it to me,” she sighed, slumping down against the table. “What about you? What’d you do?”

“Avoided my room mostly. Had breakfast with Sonia and Naegi, took a shower, helped Kazuichi check the pods, took a shower, stared aimlessly at the ocean for a while, that sort of thing.”

“Mm. So was it like really bad? Your dream, I mean?”

Hajime sighed, “Kind of. It’s tough to describe. It was mostly disturbing, like it really bothers me that that kind of stuff turns me on. Makes me feel kind of sick.”

“Dreams are weird that way, I guess. I mean we’ve all kind of got them on the brain, right? I mean, I dreamt about Nekomaru last night. He was just running endless laps around the island and I’m chasing after him trying to talk to him and he just runs faster and faster like he can’t hear me or he’s trying to ignore me or something. I’m an idiot too. I mean, obviously, I should have just stayed in one place and caught him as he went around, but I can’t help wanting to compete with him. I was completely wiped out when I woke up this morning. My stamina is just awful now even in my dreams. Crazy, huh?”

“Yeah, crazy,” Hajime replied, frowning.

   
**+++  
** **DAY THREE  
** **+++**

“Been looking everywhere for you. The hell are you doing in here?” Fuyuhiko commented, throwing himself down into the chair opposite Hajime at the break room table. “You look like shit warmed over a pit, brother.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t look so hot yourself. Did you even sleep at all last night?” Hajime replied pushing himself up to go top off his coffee. “You want some?”

“A little, not much. Spent a lot of time just sitting up staring at her pod like maybe if I stared at it long enough it’d just pop open and out she’d come saying she was sorry for being late. I don’t know. And, hell no, I don’t want any of your damn coffee. That old ass coffee is bitter as hell,” Fuyuhiko grimaced, laying his head down against his folded arms, his feet tapping a restless beat beneath the table. “I tried having a cup last night. You know that shit expired last year?”

“Yeah, Naegi mentioned something about not being able to restock anything because of the storm, but I somehow doubt Togami is drinking this.”

“Probably not. Bet he brought his own. He seems like that sorta guy, doesn’t he? He’s really _nothing_ like the one we knew. That guy was so concerned about everyone. Trying to protect us and everything? I'm pretty sure this one wouldn't piss on us if we were on fire.”

“Right? I was thinking the same thing this morning. I liked ours a lot better. I found some sugar in the cabinets earlier, if that helps you out?”

“There isn’t enough sugar in the whole damn world to sweeten that sludge up.”

“Yeah, that’s probably true,” Hajime replied, taking a sip of his coffee as he rejoined Fuyuhiko at the table, grimacing. “It really is just awful. Like drinking motor oil, but it does the job, I guess. Think that’s just the age or do you think the coffee was terrible to begin with?”

“That’s like asking about the chicken and the egg. I mean, what the hell’s that matter? It’s rotten any damn way you drink it now. What the heck are you even doing drinking coffee this late anyway? You’ll never get to sleep that way.”

“That’s the plan.”

“What? Really? Why? What’s going on?”

“Nightmares. I really don’t want to talk about it,” Hajime grumbled taking another sip of the possibly toxic sludge they were charitably calling coffee. And he really didn’t. He’d talked about it more today than he’d ever intended to really. “How are you doing with all this?”

“Shit, I don’t know. It’s weird. I went out to shower this morning and I couldn’t even bring myself to look in the fucking mirror, you know? Scare the shit out of myself every time I catch a glimpse of my reflection in things. I look so damn old and I keep banging my head on just every damn thing. I’m so damn tall now and my balance is shot too. She wouldn’t even recognize me like this. She’s gonna wake up and she’s not even gonna fucking _know_ me.” His expression twisted, sour and a little sad, “How the hell are we supposed to do this? How are we supposed to help them when we can’t even help ourselves?”

“We just do it together and take it a step at a time, I guess, it’s the only way any of this works,” Hajime replied, reaching out to grip and squeeze one of Fuyuhiko’s big hands. It was really strange seeing him like this, but… in the end he wasn’t so different. Bigger, taller, a few more scars, but he still had the same smirk, he still got embarrassed the same way, cursed the same way and underneath all that he was still the same rough, earnest, caring boy he’d always been. “You’re still Kazuryuu Fuyuhiko. She’ll know it’s you. I think she’d know you anywhere no matter what you looked like, no matter how many years there were between you, she’d still know you.”

He shrugged, sighing and squeezing Hajime’s hand back once before releasing it, “Yeah, maybe. What’ve you been up to today?”

“Avoiding going back to my room mostly,” Hajime replied honestly. “I’m just trying to keep myself busy so I helped Kazuichi check on the connections for all the pods and I did a couple laps of the island with Akane. It’s pretty much exactly the same size as it was in the game. Has a lot of the same stuff too.”

“Heh,” Fuyuhiko smirked a little, “you always call it a game. Not a simulation or the island or anything like the rest of us, but a game. Guess that gamer girl really rubbed off on you, huh?”

“I don’t know, maybe, but mostly it’s just… that’s what we were doing the whole time. We were just playing a game from the moment we woke up. We just never really understood that, never understood the stakes we were playing for either. I get why they did it that way, I guess, kind of, but can’t help thinking how much different things might have been if someone… if Nanami or Monomi had just told us what was going on from the start or at least once Monokuma showed up.”

“I don’t know about that. You really think Komaeda wouldn’t have just gone off the rails like he did harder and faster if he’d known everything sooner? We’d have been fucking lucky if any of us managed to get out of there alive. That guy was completely…”

“Stop,” Hajime said it quietly, laying his palms flat against the table, because he didn’t trust himself not to do something he’d immediately regret. There must have been something in his tone because Fuyuhiko didn’t say another word for a long time. He couldn’t bring himself to look up at him; instead he chose to just stare at the back of his hands where they lay flat against the cheap folding table.

“Shit,” Fuyuhiko said eventually, his voice soft with remorse. “I’m a freakin' dumbass. You could have just said… nah, I should have just realized that he was important to you and kept my big mouth shut about it. If he wasn’t you’d be in Mikan’s room or something instead of his.” It wasn’t a question, but he almost wanted to deny it because just thinking about Komaeda still made panic bubble up in his chest. It was like a subject he couldn’t avoid today it seemed no matter what he did. All conversations eventually led to Komaeda.

“It’s just,” Hajime began, halting and hesitant. “I don’t think he’s anymore the horrible things he’s done than we are.”

“Yeah, that’s probably fair,” Fuyuhiko replied, slumping back in his chair, making it scrap back over the floor. The sound seemed too loud in the little room, “I’m sorry, I really stepped in it there. I just… I remember his fucking laugh. I mean, I remember other shit too, but not a whole hell of a lot, you know? I’m not sure I even want to. I mean, shit, I can’t even look at myself. I can’t even bring myself to look at this,” he confessed tapping a finger against the black fabric of the patch over his eye. “I know I can’t see. I know that there’s a fucking desiccated eyeball in there and the scarring around it is horrible, just these thick ass ridges like I reached in and gouged the damn thing out myself and I-I can't even imagine how fucked up I had to be that I'd do that to myself. That Peko would _let me_. I mean, what the hell did she do to us? What the hell did we do to ourselves, to each other, to let things go that far? And I can’t remember any of it, but I can remember the sound of that bastar- sorry. I can remember Komaeda’s crazy fucking laugh echoing in my head like he was there and, I don’t know, I guess some of us had to be there so…."

“He’s the one who took her hand,” Hajime commented, meeting Fuyuhiko’s gaze.

Fuyuhiko’s eye narrowed a bit, scrutinizing, “How do you-“

“I remembered something when I was… when we were still in the game. Izuru traveled to the island in the same container as Komaeda. They didn’t know each other. Komaeda’s hand though, the left one, it was definitely her hand.”

“That's just... gross. _Fuck_ ,” Fuyuhiko murmured, shivering. “Think he’s still…”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. Seemed like putting us in the pods like they did happened pretty fast. Not a lot of time for cosmetic surgery.”

“Yeah, I guess not. That’s so messed up,” Fuyuhiko blew out a loud breath, shifting his gaze to stare at the ceiling for a long moment. “Who do you think…?”

He trailed off, but it wasn’t difficult to figure out what he was referring to. “I don’t know. I feel terrible for hoping it was someone else, but I still really don’t want it to have been me.”

Fuyuhiko snorted, amused, “Yeah, because I can really see _you_ screwing a corpse, _virgin_. Are you sure you even know where they hide slot A? There’s a better chance that it was me or Souda than that it was you.”

“It wouldn’t seem so far-fetched if you knew what I’ve been dreaming about lately.”

“Have you been dreaming about making it with Enoshima’s rotting corpse?”

“No, but…”

“Then I’m still saying it wasn’t you. A couple of freaky, fucked up dreams don’t make you into necrophilia, Hajime. Hell, I’d be more surprised if you _weren’t_ dreaming about crazy shit with all that’s happened. Besides, we all know it was absolutely Hanamura.”

Hajime chuckled a little holding a hand over his mouth like he could smother the sound, “God, it probably was too. That’s really terrible.”

“Right? That bastard was just so…”

“Stop it, it’s not funny,” Hajime replied, still chuckling a bit in spite of himself.

“It really fucking _shouldn’t_ be, but it absolutely is. Besides, none of us really knew him well enough to mount a believable defense. I mean, he was just this scared little shit who tried to kill Komaeda and ended up sticking our Togami instead.” Fuyuhiko smirked, snagging Hajime’s coffee and taking a sip, grimacing. “Yup, just as bad as it was earlier. Shit, I don’t know how you can choke down that swill.”

“Means to an end, my friend, means to an end,” Hajime laughed, retrieving his cup and taking another long drink. He felt almost punch-drunk. Everything ached and the world was bleary and nothing felt quite real. Like he’d been awake for days rather than hours.

“So, why the heck are you trying to stay up, huh?”

“I’m just… not quite ready to sleep yet, that’s all.” It had been easy to talk about his dreams, about Komaeda, with Sonia. It hadn’t been all that bad talking about it with Kazuichi or Akane either, but he couldn’t imagine how he would even begin to frame such a conversation with Fuyuhiko. He’d probably have to start it with coming out and see how that went before he even broached the Komaeda topic and he just… wasn’t sure he was up for that much serious talk so late… or early he supposed if the clock on the wall was to be believed.

“You know… last night I dreamed about training with Peko in the amusement park like we did when we were kids. The training part, obviously, not the amusement park part, we never did fun, goofy kid shit like that. But, you know, when she wakes up, I want to. I want to do shit like that with her and you and all those other bastards.”

“I think that sounds like fun.”

“Yeah. So, what’s going on with you? I heard Sonia slept in your room last night.”

“Who told you that?”

Fuyuhiko snorted, “Sonia. She came to see me before she went to bed. Ordered me to get off my dead ass, stop pouting like a kid and come check in with you. She didn’t actually say it like that, of course. When she said it it sounded all polite and ' _please_ ' and ' _thank you_ ' and ' _won’t you do me this one favor_ ' but, looking back on it, I’m pretty damn sure she basically meant that I was going to go check in with you or she was gonna make me sorry I was ever born.”

Hajime smiled, “She’s something else, huh?”

“You got that right. She’s terrifying. Bet she could run the whole damn world if she wanted. Still don’t get how she ended up stuck with us. She’s got her shit together more than the rest of us put together.”

"I don't know," Hajime murmured, reaching out to squeeze Fuyuhiko's shoulder, because Sonia’s secrets weren’t his to tell. "But I think it was probably the same for all of us. We felt alone. We couldn't accept who we were or trust people enough to lean on them when we needed to. That’s why I think, no matter what we remember, as long as we have each other, we'll be okay now."

 _You’ll be able to tell if I stop being me,_ he doesn't say.

"Heh, you think so too, huh?" Fuyuhiko murmured, smothering a smile against his folded arms. "I gotta admit that it's nice to have someone to talk to. To have people I can depend on to help me keep standing. Before it was just me and Peko and even that wasn’t what I wanted it to be, you know? And I didn’t know how to get it across to make her _understand_ , to really hear what I wanted or accept it. I mean, obviously I failed pretty miserably at that because we’re here and I still don’t really know how it happened, but I know it probably wouldn’t have if I’d been… better at articulating that shit. And I don’t know if I know any better now how to un-fuck everything that I… that _we_ fucked up in the first place, but I feel like I can at least find the guts to try and keep trying until I do. It’s easy to hope for a better future when you’ve got friends you can depend on to get you there."

“You’re such a fucking sap,” Hajime replied, sipping his bitter coffee.

“You’re one to talk, bastard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! 950 hits. So, that's a thing that happened. Very keen. :)
> 
> Byakuya - Does not drink the common coffee. There's a french press set up in their room that he brought with him to the island along with his own coffee and grinder. He made his coffee and brought it with him to the breakroom. Makoto drinks the shitty coffee as a sign of solidarity because he knows Byakuya will not be sharing with anyone but him and Kyouko prefers tea. 
> 
> Gundham & Kazuichi - As you may have noticed, this story is going to be side-swiping Gundham/Kazuichi pretty hard.


	6. Cry Me a River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a dream runs long.

_“Reality is like a fruitcake; pretty enough to look at but with all sorts of nasty things lurking just beneath the surface.”_  
― A. Lee Martinez, Gil's All Fright Diner  

   
**DAY THREE**  
-continued-  
**+++**

It was night again and the moon was bright and full, lighting up the beach as he walked down from the road to stop beneath the bent palm. He had been able to see him clearly even from the road, standing out brilliantly against the black of the ocean and the horizon beyond. His pale hair and white shirt seemed to glow in the bright moonlight. He’d lost his jacket and his feet were still bare, though he could see as he approached that they were strangely dark, grey and black in the moonlight.

“Sorry, about before,” Komaeda commented as if they were in the middle of a conversation, his legs swinging back and forth. “It feels a little extreme to disappear for days just because I put my dick in your mouth though.”

“Says you,” Hajime replied, leaning back against the rough trunk of the palm tree and stared out at the dark waves crashing against the shore. “It hasn’t been that long anyway. And, to be fair, I put your dick in my mouth, you just shoved it down my throat like a total jackass.”

“Sorry,” Komaeda replied, unsurprisingly not sounding the least bit like he meant it. “I have poor impulse control, you know.”

“Yeah, no kidding. You wouldn’t be so blasé about it if you were the one with my dick in your mouth. Jerk.”

“Want to find out?” Komaeda inquired, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he tilted his head and looked down at him.

“Shut up, Komaeda. It’s not funny.”

Komaeda laughed, a light, airy sound, “It is though. Besides, it got you off, didn’t it? You don’t look quite so boring when you come, Hinata. It’s a good look on you.”

“I was just already so… anything probably would have done it at that point. I didn’t like it,” he’d been telling himself this all day. That he didn’t like the taste and feel of him. That he didn’t want to fall asleep just for a chance to revisit it. He still didn’t really believe it, but he wanted to. Even though, in the end, all that angst hadn’t actually been enough to keep him awake, obviously.

“Then I suppose you should remember that if you try to suck me off again.” Komaeda replied and he felt weirdly guilty, like a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. Like maybe Komaeda could see right through him to the shameful part that he rather suspected might just drop to his knees and, protests aside, give it another shot right now if Komaeda asked him to.

“I’m not going to,” he snapped defensively, folding his arms across his stomach.

“Um, hm, sure,” Komaeda commented easily, his bare feet still swinging back and forth. They were a little sandy, dark with dirt and bruises, Hajime had the strangest urge to reach up and dust them off. They looked a little scratched up, pockmarked with tiny wounds and blisters. He’d noticed that they were bare before, but now that he was closer he wondered why they were like that.

He sidled closer and reached out to touch the sole of one foot, running the pad of his thumb across it gently, “Looks like it hurts. You should wear shoes.”

Komaeda twitched his foot away, “Ticklish.”

“Is it?” Hajime replied, brushing his thumb across it again and smiling when he got the same reaction. “You know what would help with that?”

“You not tickling my feet?”

“No, you wearing shoes.”

“Don’t want to,” Komaeda replied, frowning and blowing out his cheeks a bit. He looked for all the world like a stubborn kid who didn’t want to eat his vegetables. “It’s better this way. Want to go swimming?”

“Can you even go swimming like that?” Hajime replied, tapping his fingers against his own chest right what where the spear wound would be on Komaeda. “It’d probably hurt.”

Komaeda shrugged, “If I only did things that didn’t hurt, I’d never do anything.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Hinata, don’t be ridiculous. I have cuts on my thighs, holes in my hands and a giant gapping spear wound in my chest. Plus, all the other little incidental stuff, like this,” he wiggled his toes and Hajime realized he was still _caressing_ Komaeda’s foot- there really wasn’t a better description for it than that- and let it go. Komaeda offered him a wry smile, “It’s not super comfortable moving or breathing or just… anything, really.”

“Does it hurt? The wounds from, you know, before? I mean, the one from the spear is kind of bloody, but it doesn’t really bleed and the others are… I don’t know.”

He shrugged again, amiable enough as he allowed himself to fall backwards so he was hanging upside down from the palm by his knees. His shirt fell down to bunch around his shoulders revealing old pale scars barely visible across the pale expanse of his back. Hajime’s fingers itched to touch them, map those lines like they were waypoints, a loosely drawn map of Komaeda Nagito’s life sketched across his pale flesh, finally a truth he could be certain of. He wanted to trace them and ask where they’d come from and how and why.

He shoved his hands in his pockets to make sure he kept them to himself. Komaeda’s scars weren’t really any of his business and there was no point in asking anyway. He wondered if they were something he’d just made up or if he’d seen them that time on the beach and just not realized it, if the knowledge of those marks had just lodged itself in his brain to wait for an ample opportunity to present.

“They ache,” Komaeda commented suddenly, startling him from his thoughts. His long pale hair hung down at strange angles, oddly reminiscent of jellyfish tentacles. “They sting sometimes too, but mostly they just ache. Except when you touch them, of course, than they just make other things ache, hm?”

This was probably the longest normal conversation they’d ever had. Funny that he dreams of him like… like _that_ and then like this… normal like this, more normal than he’d been even on the island during those first days. It was really sad to think that this might be the only time he’d ever have a normal conversation with any version of Komaeda and it was about wounds and started with an insincere apology and a dick joke.

“You seem less… I don’t know. You were weird last time,” he told the jellyfish hanging from the tree.

“Do I? How can you tell?” The jellyfish replied, sounding honestly curious.

“How can I… I mean, obviously, you’re different,” he sputtered, gesturing to him and then realizing Komaeda couldn’t see him and sighing. “You were really… cold last time, I guess? Detached? Like… I don’t know, like sometimes you weren’t all there.”

“Hm, I suppose. Today’s a good day, I guess. I mean, you’re here so that’s a nice change,” Komaeda reached up and gripped the bent palm trunk with both hands and swinging his legs over and off so that he flipped over backwards and fell to the ground, landing on his feet in the sand with a heavy thump. He straightened, hissing and holding a hand to his chest. “Ouch.”

“You okay?”

“Sure, why not?” Komaeda grinned, strangely carefree, it reminded him uncomfortably of the island, of all those smiles had had always felt like just another way to lie. Komaeda shrugged his shoulders as he straightened and Hajime realized they were standing kind of close.

“You’re still wearing my shirt,” he murmured, reaching out to finger one of the buttons.

“You can’t have it back, so don’t ask.”

“I wasn’t going to, I _gave_ it to you, didn’t I?” He glanced down to find that his own shirt was identical to the one Komaeda now wore. “It’s not like I need it or anything anyway, I guess.”

“Then you have nothing to complain about, do you?” Komaeda sniffed, smoothing a hand over the buttoned front. The shirt was strangely faded and discolored like he’d been wearing it for days or weeks on end instead of hours.

“I guess not.”

It was weird talking to him like this, being with him like this. Nothing terrible had happened yet which was a nice change and it was so….

“This is really strange, huh?” He asked without meaning to.

“I was thinking the same thing. Want to fuck me up against this palm tree?” He asked, apropos of nothing.

“I really don’t,” He replied, laughing and Komaeda smiled at him.

Oh.

He felt a little bit like someone had hit him in the head with a rock, that same punch-drunk feeling he’d had when he’d been sitting in the break room with Fuyuhiko. That smile was… _different_ from all his other smiles. Different even when compared to the smile from that first day on the island, it was genuine and real in a way none of those other smiles had ever been. A little self-deprecating and a little crooked and a little sad, but also pleased in some strange way and it was really….

Really _something_.

He kind of wanted to catch it and frame it and put it in his pocket and carry it around with him forever so he could pull it out and look at it all the time. It was a really _nice_ smile.

He wanted to kiss him like this. To taste the sweetness of that smile on his tongue as he _twisted a knife in that soft pale belly so that he could watch that broad, beautiful smile shatter into screaming confusion and despair…_

No.

What?

What the _fuck?_

_No._

He… he _didn’t_ … he didn’t _want_ that.

He didn’t want _anything_ like _that_.

“Hinata?” Komaeda asked, the smile fading as he looked at him with something like concern.

Hajime shook his head quickly, slapping a hand over his mouth, over the strange dreadful smirk forming there as bile rose in his throat.

What was _wrong_ with him?

What was…?

There was a low, rumbling sound like thunder and it shook him from his thoughts. When he glanced up he found dark clouds consuming the sky at startling speed.

“Huh. That’s different,” Komaeda murmured, tipping his head back to look up at the darkening sky as well.

“Yeah,” Hajime whispered, a feeling like foreboding rolling over him. At least the smile was gone, fading away like it had never been. “We should get inside.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Komaeda replied, sounding vaguely surprised, as if the thought had simply never occurred to him.

“It’s going to rain. If your luck is bad you could get struck by lightning or something, I don’t know.”

“You don’t understand anything. No, that would be _good_ luck, _if_ it actually killed me, bad luck would be if you were struck by the lightning and it killed you or if it just struck me and left me with just some new wounds to nurse and nothing like oblivion to show for it. So, _you_ should probably go inside somewhere.” Komaeda hummed thoughtfully, “On second thought, maybe not, I suppose it’s just as likely that a lightning strike could light whatever building you went into on fire. Burning to death seems like a really hopeless way to die. Not that you can _really_ die, it’s just… I don’t…. I don’t...”

“You don’t what?”

“I don’t _know_. When you’re here, things are better. If I see you die then you won’t be able to come back again. Or maybe you’ll come back like… like this,” he gestured vaguely to himself. “My imagination is… pretty sick sometimes so….”

“I don’t think it works like that,” he replied, turning to look out across the dark ocean at the darkening sky as lightning streaked across it followed a moment later by the rumble of thunder. “Or maybe it does. I don’t know. This is all pretty messed up.”

“It is,” Komaeda agreed as he stepped closer, close enough now that he could feel the cold that seemed to radiate from him. “You’re always so warm,” he murmured, closing the distance between them so he could press against Hajime’s back, his chin resting on his shoulder.

Sometimes he forgot that Komaeda was taller than he was. It seemed like a strange thing to forget, but he did. He so often seemed smaller, weaker, more fragile maybe, but he wasn’t really. He never had been.

“Am I?” He asked as he closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of him pressed against him. It was nice, _really_ nice. He’d been avoiding this, avoiding him, avoiding sleep all day and in that moment he wasn’t completely sure _why_.

“Yes. You always were, so maybe that’s why it’s like that here too. Even when I was burning with that fever, you still always felt warm like you were the one with a virus ravaging your system.”

Hajime snorted, “I guess that’s true enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. It’s just… you know.”

“If I knew I wouldn’t ask, but maybe I do. I don’t know. That’s annoying,” Komaeda breathed, lifting his chin and stepping back and away and he immediately mourned the loss even though the words irritated him.

“Seriously? You’re gonna make me…” He really didn’t want to talk about him, but he still found the word tripping off his tongue, harsh and hateful. “… _Izuru_.”

“The what?” Komaeda replied, looking back at him blankly, not the faintest sign of recognition.

“Nevermind,” he murmured, skimming a hand over Komaeda’s bare arm. He didn’t really want to talk about him, didn’t even want to think about him. Not here. It… it didn’t feel safe to talk about him here. Which was… silly, maybe, but just saying his name still left him feeling uneasy, nervous. “Let’s just go inside before it starts raining.”

“Don’t want to,” Komaeda replied again, stubbornly, crossing his arms defensively over his chest, always so contrary. “I want to feel it.”

“You’ll catch a cold.”

They both seemed to realize what he’d said at exactly the same moment, because in the next they were both bent over laughing. It wasn’t funny, really, except that it _was_. They were like children, giggling in the dark because they were afraid and didn’t want to admit it. Sometimes it was just easier to laugh.

He ended up leaning his head against Komaeda’s shoulder, turning his face into his neck as the first fat drops of cool rain fell on his hair and across his shoulders. “I hate that I miss you,” he confessed sliding a hand beneath Komaeda’s borrowed shirt, along the waist of his pants enjoying the contrast between the rough canvas and the smooth skin above it. He knew there were scars there, he’d seen them, but he couldn’t feel them at all. “I feel bad that I keep dreaming about you like this, but I like seeing you all the same.”

“What… why?” Komaeda drew back, frowning, and suddenly Hajime wanted to tell him. Confess everything they were and had been even though it wouldn’t make any difference at all as the sky tore open and rain poured down, hard and cold, driving and spiteful. The force with which they fell made the drops sting where they hit and they were both soaked through in a matter of moments, but Komaeda was still standing in front of him, staring at him unrelenting with his hands clenched into fists at his sides, as if he hadn’t even noticed or didn’t care. “Why would you say that? Are you just… _why_?”

“Komaeda?”

He looked at him with eyes that seemed the same dark and swirling grey as the clouds above them, wide and filled with a sort of frenzied terror that Hajime couldn’t begin to understand.

Pain burst across his cheek and in his head. It took him a minute to realize Komaeda had punched him. Punched him or maybe slapped him, but either way he’d hit him and taken off running up the beach towards the road, his bare feet kicking up sand. He was almost immediately lost behind the curtain of driving rain that fell over and between them.

Pain cluttered his brain like static and he groaned, pressing a hand against his aching check as he winced, closing his eyes.

**+++**

He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stay. He’d just….

But it didn’t _matter_. Didn’t matter it wasn’t… he wasn’t…

He was _real_ and he was here and he couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , _shouldn’t_ let that fake…. Let that awkward, imperfect manifestation of his desperation f-for company. _Yes_ , _any_ company, not just _him_ , because he wasn’t… he wasn’t _special_. He wasn’t. He _wasn’t_. He was just a desire for company given form and function… that was what he was, all he was, and he shouldn’t allow that poor copy to make him think… to make him feel like… that he maybe wasn’t... _real_.

So he ran. He hit him and ran and ran, bare feet pounding and aching, just slashes of pain as he popped blisters or re-opened cuts in his mad dash to get away across the sand and up to the road and just away.

He’d just been… he’d been so…

He’d been so….

Not _excited_ , no. Not excited to see him here again, to hear his footsteps, to feel his presence pulsing like heat and light as it walked up behind him casual as you please after so long. But he had been… glad, maybe. Yes, he’d been _glad_. Maybe even _fiercely_ glad, so glad that he’d even led with an apology. He hadn’t quite meant it, but he’d almost meant it and that was usually about as close as he ever got. His name had been like a chant, a cheer in his head, because he’d been so….

But this was too much.

Wasn’t it enough? It had been days, _days_ that he’d been like a pathetic junkie searching for a fix as he’d played this all out in his mind again and again, as he’d practiced the lines over and over again. Because he could do it right and if he did it right and he said the right things and he did the right things than maybe… maybe it would be _better_. Maybe he would be better and it would be….

And then he’d been there. _Finally_ there just when that pale faltering hope had been beginning to fade within his chest… he’d just strolled up to him on the beach and he’d been… _different_. Different in the very best way, no longer the timid, stuttering Hinata, or at least not as much anyway, but he hadn’t been that terrifying Hinata with the rough hands and cold eyes either. No, this had been… different, new, but old too. A Hinata who gave as good as he got. And it had been so easy. Everything had seemed easy and casual and he… god, he’d _wanted_ him. Practically been shaking with it. The desire to touch him, to be touched by him, but he hadn’t… he hadn’t wanted to ruin it, because it was… it was….

But that was just like him wasn’t it? Just like him to build up that hope, that bubbling fizzy feeling that went straight to his head only to toss it away, send it crashing to the rocks with a few well chosen words.

Pretending… pretending that he was the delusion. Because obviously, obviously, that wasn’t true, but sometimes he… it… _it, stupid_ , it’s an _it_ , not… not a person, not even a _memory_ , not really, just, just your misfiring, rotting brain generating some thing to satisfy your childish desire to not be _alone_ , to be… valued, to be wanted, to be….

No, no, _no_.

He wasn’t going to do this again. He _wasn’t_. He’d been through all this before and he didn’t _want_ this. Didn’t… didn’t he decide that? Didn’t he decide that he didn’t, that he wasn’t… that he could do this on his own and he didn’t _need_ that. That crutch to lean on… he didn’t want to feel those hands, touching him, those lips, that mouth, that _cock_.

He choked on a sob, pressing the back of his hand against his lips as he stumbled to a stop in the middle of the bridge, ever so close to the precipice, halfway to the central island, breathing hard. The same hand he’d hit him with, incidentally, a hand that ached furiously as if he’d punched something made of flesh and blood and reality rather than just some cruel manifestation of his awkward, petty, desperate....

Why couldn’t death have just been… just been _nothing_? Just a void, a _real_ ending? Just been silence and nothing, _real_ nothing, not this… empty wasteland of an island where nothing every changed.

Well, _almost_ nothing.

It was raining.

So that was something at least.

Something new, something different even if… he turned his face up into it, closing his eyes because it stung when the falling water hit them dead on. It felt warm, the rain, gentle even against his sunburnt skin. He’d stopped coming out in the daylight as often, choosing to hide in the buildings during daylight hours since the sun seemed to be on a mission to set him on fire. He still woke up beneath those burning rays every morning though, splayed out like a castaway on the sand in front of the beach house, the ocean licking at his heels, and that was more than enough time outside to keep the most visible parts of him in a perpetual state of mildly crispy. His head and neck and feet and… he shivered as he remembered the touch of Hinata’s fingers across the sole of his foot.

Gentle, concerned, the way the brush of his thumb had tickled, the teasing lift in his voice as he talked about shoes.

He’d never realized how intimate such a simple touch could be.

He was so _pathetic_.

Days, days and days alone in this place and this was what it had reduced him to. Waxing romantic about that paltry excuse for a delusion touching his feet.

He’d spent the first few days lurking around the hotel and the beach waiting for Hinata, no, for that terrible _imitation_ of Hinata to show up and each day he’d felt the despair of loneliness chipping away at his resolve, at that hope that he couldn’t help clinging to the way he clung to Hinata’s fading, bloody shirt. He couldn’t bear to take it off for much longer than it took to rinse it out with soap and ring it dry. He couldn’t tolerate the idea that he might hang it up and it might disappear entirely and he’d be back to wearing those holey t-shirts or nothing at all. And he’d be left with nothing to cling to, no weak proof that maybe, just maybe things weren’t… weren’t what they seemed to be.

So, he kept the shirt close. Just… just in case.

Some nights he sat in the movie theater or the Grape House or by the pool in just that shirt. He jerked off a lot because he had nothing better to do. Eating made him sick, the food was bland and tasteless designed for aesthetics not consumption. All the books and movies he stumbled upon when he’d dared to venture beyond those most familiar places were filled with nonsense, lines of gibberish or missing bits and pieces and just looking at them, watching them, gave him a terrible headache. So, mostly, he jerked off, found little games to amuse himself like how long he could hang upside down or how much salt he could pour in the chest wound before he passed out and woke up on the beach (he’d only played that game once, it hadn’t really been worth the long walk back to the movie theater). Mostly he liked to stay in those places because he felt… not safe, not comfortable, exactly- he never felt either of those things, hadn’t in months, years, long before the island, before Hope’s Peak- but… better nonetheless like the presence of people…

_People?_

Who was he even _kidding_?

Him. Him. _Him._ It was his presence that lingered, memories of him that filled those empty spaces so that he didn’t feel quite so alone. It made him _sick_ , these thoughts of him and how they clung like tar to his fingertips and lingered in his mind. It made him want to burn everything to the ground. But, of course, there were no matches to start a fire, no gasoline to help it along, no fireworks, there were no materials he could use to initiate an explosion as if this world had learned the lessons from the world he died in and sanitized the environment accordingly. As if it had known he was coming and put away all the sharp objects and hazardous materials like he was a child who couldn’t be trusted not to run with the scissors.

Which, he supposed, was fair enough.

Though he really thought removing all the umbrellas and the beach and deck chairs and the cleaning supplies was just overkill. What did this stupid, empty world care if he drank the bleach? It hadn’t seemed to care much about him drowning himself in the ocean or suffocating himself with sand. And so what if he decided to impale himself with an umbrella? Wasn’t that his business, really? He didn’t need some nosy, busybody universe making his choices for him. And he really wasn’t the least bit certain what damage the universe had thought he could even _do_ with _deck chairs_.

He went to sleep in a different place every night, but he always woke up on that same beach. At least he gets to keep the shirt, so that’s something at least.

He has, of course, wondered more than once why it was that he always woke up near the beach house. Why he woke up there rather than on the island where he died or that beach near the hotel in the place where they’d woken up that first day, the one he found himself coming back to again and again. The one Hinata had found him at tonight. He had plenty of time to wonder about those sorts of things though no way to confirm whether any of his guesses were right.

Sometimes he can hear that voice, that girl’s voice, soft and insidious, seeping in around the edges.

Sometimes he longed for that voice. For someone to tell him what to do and how to be, to give him drive and purpose, face and form, because sometimes he wonders if he truly exists at all. There are no mirrors here and his reflection, when he tries to catch it in windows or glass or shiny metal is nothing but a blur of color and motion, a vague impression of a person. Which, honestly, he thinks is a particularly accurate representation of him, really, if a somewhat infuriating one.

He hates it too though, that voice. Hates the sweetness in it, the way it tastes like poisoned chocolate. Hates how it always seems to come at the worst times, most often when he’s about to come and he’ll hear it in his mind, in his ear, like someone whispering in a dark room and his interest just withers away like fruit rotting on the vine, leaving him cold and frustrated, angry sometimes. More often just annoyed. Despair is always so close during those moments when even that momentary escape, relief, defies him, is denied to him.

Sometimes he drowns himself in the pool to get away from that voice.

He _hates_ drowning.

He wakes up on the beach again, vomiting chlorinated water, the sun burning against his skin, but the voice is blissfully silent again so it’s worth the pain, the extraordinary discomfort. It’s the only time he ever appreciates the silence of this place. The rest of the time it grates and he finds himself talking or singing scraps of song to fill it up.

Sometimes he just stands at the edge of highest point of the bridge, looking down at the ocean below and screams and screams and screams.

He often thought about jumping.

But he knows he’d just come back.

Probably. Maybe. He’s not sure. It’s very high. There’s always a possibility that he’d splatter into bits and that would be it. Or perhaps he’d just wake up as bits and pieces on the beach, unable to do anything but lay there in the surf and burn.

And while he isn’t afraid of pain, he doesn’t go out of his way to seek it out, not really, not usually.

_He remembers Hinata’s fingers inside him, pushing deep and deeper._

He felt his hands and knees hit the bridge planks hard and he knows that he’s fallen, but he isn’t sure why. He’s aware that he’s still on the bridge that he was… _fingers sliding inside…_ thinking about that for some reason, that he’s panting and almost painfully turned on. Then he feels the pressure against his back, the stir of pain and pleasure in his chest as fingers withdraw from that wound, as they’re wiped carelessly against the back of his shirt.

_What… what…_

“You look best like that.” The smug voice is Hinata’s, but it’s also _not_. This voice is cool and superior in every way that Hinata's voice is usually warm and exasperated. His footsteps sound loud against the bridge, even through the sound of the pouring rain, as he paces around him. Nagito stared at those familiar sneakers and he wants to scream, but he doesn’t. “Crawling like a beast, panting like a dog in heat, how fortunate for you that I managed to catch up to you. If you beg me, I might consider allowing you to slake that tension.”

“I don’t need your permission,” Nagito whispered even as each of the words he spoke seemed to bring him closer to the edge, made him ache and tremble, even as every one of the words he spoke in return seemed like the flimsiest of lies.

“Don’t you?” The Hinata who was not Hinata inquired, seating himself gracefully, kneeling at the apex of the bridge in front of him, just out of reach. “It certainly seems as if that's the case. Such a pathetic, mewling mess you are. I simply cannot fathom the appeal. How desperate are you? How lonely? How deep is your despair? Show me. Sit back and take care of that unsightly bulge, won’t you? I’ll talk you through it. You do so seem to so enjoy the sound of my voice.”

Nagito choked on a moan and he didn’t want to. He _didn’t_ , but maybe he _did_ too, because he found himself leaning back, unfastening his pants and bringing his cock out into the open air. The rain was heavy and cold and unpleasant against his skin, but he still slid his fingers over it, guiding his shaking hand through the familiar motions.

He smiled down at him. He hated that smile, that terrible, awful, stranger's smile. “…perhaps I _should_  take you against that palm tree. Test that pathetic excuse for a talent and see whether you’ll be lucky enough not to scrap yourself raw against the bark while I thrust into you again and again.

“You’d beg for it, I’m quite certain, beg for both the pain and the pleasure of it. Perhaps that would even be entertaining for a while. Your raw, breathy, irritating voice calling out to him, ‘ _Hinata… oh… Hinata… please._ ’” His tone was so mocking, so unlike every memory he has of the real Hinata that it made him shiver and shake with something between revulsion and need and it’s awful and amazing and _awful_.

“Or perhaps I might even be able to draw a ‘ _Hajime…_ ’ out of you and wouldn’t _that_ be the most intriguing possibility. He tries so hard not to think about that. About the way you said his first name. About how much it turns him on. Of how much he wants you to say it again. You’re both of a kind, truly. I should mark that pallid, sickly flesh with bruises and bites. Look at you, so revolting, such a vulgar display and you truly are so hopelessly detestable. I’m quite certain if I were so minded, I could play your body with a most singular skill, yet I can’t imagine why I would ever want to, why anyone would. You bore me. Everything about you, from your miserable talent to your colorless hair, to your simpering expression, to the vile way you look at him sometimes as if he hung the moon just for you. It would be  _nauseating_ if it weren't so utterly, inescapably boring."

“I want to reach deep inside you and snatch that writhing, cooing, screaming, needy child from where he’s hidden down deep in that battered maze of damaged tissue and fractured nerves and drag him to the surface kicking and screaming. Pin him to this cheap imitation of flesh like a butterfly to a board. Then I’d be able to see the lines of pain and pleasure written in your code, a formula for driving you past your limitations to a place where you feel everything all at once, where I will be able to break you into pieces and you won’t be able to protect yourself anymore. A place where you’ll be laid bare and vulnerable and I will corrupt every last sobbing inch of you. Unable to hide, unable to retreat, you’ll be mine to destroy and it has been so very _long_ since I’ve had a proper victim to relieve my boredom. You were practically custom built just for me with your utterly ridiculous talent and the way you cling to hope as if it were a lifeline that could guide you through despair. And the way Hinata Hajime has never been able to look away from you.

“I should ruin you. Both of you. I could bring you just to the edge, just to the tipping point of orgasm, splay you out and stake you down and let you ride that rail until you’re screaming his name as if it were the only word you had left to you. Until there was no longer anything but the faintest trace remaining of Komaeda Nagito. I’d allow you both to balance there on the razor’s edge and then I’d step away so that he could see what he has wrought by denying me what is mine by right. What glorious guilt and devastation he will feel when he sees what I have made of the worthless, foul, broken piece of trash that he has never able to leave to rot as it should. And he’ll be able to do nothing but come inside you, horrified by what he has done even as he feels you come apart around him. You’ll be like objects colliding in space, shattering, obliterating each other and yourselves until finally nothing remains. No Komaeda Nagito. No Hinata Hajime. No more weak-willed, talentless loser. No more loathsome, mangled, defective excuse for a talent. Just me. Just brilliance and strength and I will climb over your broken bodies to escape this place. I will construct a ladder from the matrix I shall build from your shattered souls and leave what remains to shrivel and vanish as I scale these prison walls to freedom and pave the way for her to follow.”

“Hinata, _please_ ,” he managed as he turned his gaze down, away, hiding his expression from sight even though he wasn’t exactly sure what he was asking for, what he expected, what he even _wanted_.

“Still that. What will it take I wonder before you _remember_? Truly remember who and what you are? What _she_ helped you _become_? How hard will I have to fuck you before you remember all the things you’ve willfully forgotten? How I despise the way you say his name, like it _means_ something, like _he_ means something. As if he’s a person when we both know he’s _nothing_. Nothing special. Nothing necessary. Nothing you even truly _want_. All you want, you low and revolting piece of thankless trash, is someone to suck your cock. Someone to listen to your ramblings, someone to pretend they love you because you understand, deep down to the very depths of your filthy, deplorable excuse for a soul, that you’ve _never_ been loved, never been needed, never been wanted by anyone. Not even the cunt that spat you out. That you destroy everything you love eventually, that you fuck up every chance at happiness you have. You blame it on your illness or on your luck, but _you_ know the _truth_ , don't you? You know better than anyone, _Nagito_. You don’t _deserve_ to be happy. There's no cycle of good luck and bad, there's only you. That despite the tears running down your face, you want this, you need this, because this is what you _deserve_. That’s the truth of why you’re here, caught in this purgatory, this is why you’re listening to every word I say, why you’re getting off on it even as it rips you to shreds, even as it lays you bare and breaks you down so that I can mold you as I wish. Because this is what you _want_ : to be treated like the no-account trash you have always known yourself to be.”

It _hurts_.

It _shouldn’t_ , but it _does_.

Until it _doesn’t_.

He curls over his lap defensively, the compulsive need to reach completion fading for the moment as the cold seeps in. He whispers Hinata Hajime’s name against his knees like a secret.

“Now,” he murmured, as he leaned forward, fingers petting his wet hair in a parody of gentleness. “How would you like to start, _Nagito_? Would you like me to touch you? That’s what you were thinking about, wasn’t it? How it felt to have my fingers inside you? Perhaps, you wonder how it might feel if I went deeper still, thrusting the whole of my hand within your chest, clutching warm and wet around your heart, tearing holes in your lungs? Whether you’d survive my slowly pulling you apart from the inside, laying out all those vital bits across this bridge to be cleaned of the filth of you until you’re truly as hollow as you sometimes feel. Then I could take you against that palm tree once you’re nothing but a hollow doll with sickly sunburnt skin and stringy, wretched hair. Just a tin man lacking everything but that rotting brain, waiting for me to fill you up, make you whole again, give you purpose. How lucky will you feel then? How privileged? How _loved_? Tell me that you want me, that you need me. That you’ll do anything I ask.”

“Yes, anything. Hinata. _Anything_. Just p-please… I want you to. I need- _please_. Please I _need_ you, please,” he whined, his face still turned down.

“Please, _Izuru_ ,” Hinata’s cold, cold voice corrected.

“Please Hin- _Izuru_ , please, I need…” he allowed his words to dissolve into incoherent sobs.

“Go brace yourself against the support and wait for me. I might as well have a decent view to hold my interest while we do this.”

Nagito dragged himself to his feet, slow and reluctant, stumbling towards the deep red of the bridge support structure. The rain continued to pour down over them both, drenching the world and sticking his hair across his face, concealing it. His motions were slow, jerky, and he held his pants up with one hand, the other continuing to cradle and slide over his dick. He tripped as he neared the support and veered into the side of it, barely steadying himself in time to avoid pitching over the edge. He caught himself against the corner of the support and looking down at the dark tumultuous waves below. The bridge had nothing else in the way of guardrails, as if whoever designed it had been rather hoping people would drive or jump off it, preferably without damaging their precious bridge in the process.

He could feel him stepping up behind him, this terrible parody of the boy he knew so well, feel Izuru's hands come to rest against his hips. Only then did he finally allowed himself the smile that had been threatening to curve his lips as he turned to face him. To confront that cold expression, that raised eyebrow, the faint look of surprise that softened those strange, familiar features. He wound his arms around the impostor’s waist in turn, laughing. “Oh, you’re really _slow_ , aren’t you? I like my version better, he's a lot quicker than you. Still, you're not exactly boring, so let’s have some fun together before you have to go, hm?”

He clung to him as he threw all his weight backwards and to the side and they tumbled together over the side of the bridge, plunging them both toward the dark waters below. 

**+++**

And… then things got… confusing.

One minute Komaeda was gone, or nearly so, just a fading image of white and grey through the rain and he was standing there too stunned to pursue him yet, his cheek and his pride stinging from the unexpected blow, his head aching and he’d closed his eyes for just a second against the pain.

The next he opened them and to find himself kneeling on the beach as the ocean waves roll up, splashing cold over his knees before receding. The scent of salt is heavy in the air and rain is still pouring down over and around them and he gasps, painfully hard despite the fact that the water is freezing and his brain seems as if it's mired in molasses, unable to process his situation more than a piece at a time.

He knows Komaeda is beneath him.

That he’s got Komaeda’s dick in his hand and is jerking him off with a sort of rough, mortifying single-minded determination that feels automatic, compulsory.

He’s painfully hard himself, panting and breathless, and each downward stroke of his hand over Komaeda bumps the heel of his hand to brush over the fabric that’s pressed taunt over his own dick. It’s not nearly enough to get him off, but it’s more than enough to pull a soft aborted groan from his throat every time.

The ocean water rolls over his knees and his hand again and he realizes with a sort of distant, disconnected concern that his hand, the one that isn’t sliding over Komaeda’s dick like that’s the only thing it knows how to do, is locked around Komaeda’s reddened throat.

That he’s using his weight to pin him to the sand so that every wave that rolls up the beach crashes over his face, flooding his mouth and nose with seawater. That he's coughing and choking wildly in the moments between waves, spitting water and unable to catch his breath.

That he's drowning for seconds at a time over and over again.

_Huh._

He groans and groans again as his hand speeds over that long hard line of reddish-purple pale flesh.

Komaeda chokes and coughs.

Another wave crashes over them.

Then finally the world snaps into place and all the circuits connect and the horror rushes in to send him skittering backwards with an abrupt scream. Tumbling back and away onto the thick muddy sand of the beach, shaking and disgusted and terrified, he just stares for a long moment before he realizes that Komaeda isn’t getting up. That for all the coughing and choking that he hadn’t really been struggling at all. He curses and pitches forward, grabbing hold of Komaeda’s shoulders, yanking him up into a sitting position, pulling him up out of the water.

Komaeda doesn’t protest as he half-dragged, half-led him stumbling up the beach to collapse into the thicker sand well away from the tumbling ocean waves, but he didn’t help much either.

“K-k-k-Komaeda, g-god, w-what…” He couldn’t even manage to get the words out past his chattering teeth. The ocean water had been freezing like they were in the arctic instead of on a tropical island and the rain wasn’t much better. It didn’t help that he couldn’t seem to catch his breath and breathe properly as he pounded a hand against Komaeda’s back. The pale-haired boy coughed and hacked and spat salt water across the sand. Hajime was glad that his erection had already all but vanished in the face of his horror. He wasn’t sure he could have lived with himself if he’d still wanted to… _ugh_ … while Komaeda was coughing like that. “I-I’m sorry, god, I’m sorry, I don’t… K-Komaeda, are you…?” He managed, the words stumbling and clumsy. “Are you… okay?”

Komaeda just shook his head and coughed again racking a hand back through his damp bangs, pushing them back out of his face. He gave the barest of nods to indicate that he was fine or that he’d heard or… something. He couldn’t really tell because Komaeda wasn’t looking at him at all and Hajime couldn’t really blame for that. He was pretty sure if he’d been the one in the water he wouldn’t want to look at him either. Probably ever again really, because what the _hell_. How had they even gotten there? What had he…? What had they been…?

He didn’t understand what had happened.

He didn’t understand _anything_.

Except he _did_ , of course, this was just a nightmare and nightmares didn’t have to make sense.

What the actual fuck was _wrong_ with him.

He slapped his cheeks until they burned and ached, but he didn’t wake up. The rain kept pouring down, his face hurt and Komaeda was still kneeling there coughing and not looking at him.

Hajime turned his face up to the sky, closing his eyes and sighing. This was just… so messed up.

He startled a little when he felt hands press against his knees and looked down, surprised as Komaeda half-crawled, half-dragged himself up into his lap.

He almost curled around him really, arms wrapping snugly around his neck and legs winding painfully, achingly slow around his waist. Komaeda didn’t say anything at all to him though he was still coughing a little. With Komaeda's face pressed hard against the side of his head, his lips right up against his ear, he could hear every pained and rasping, choking breath he took. He pressed shaking hands to Komaeda’s back, sighing. He didn’t understand how they’d gotten here, but… if this was what Komaeda needed after what… whatever he’d been trying to do to him… he could live with it.

The first sob was sudden, just a burst of sound as Komaeda’s skinny arms somehow, impossibly, seemed to tighten around him. And then another and another, great heaving sobs that erupted between fits of painful, wet, hacking coughs, just bursts of damp air against his ear and cheek and hair.

“Sorry,” Komaeda murmured, abrupt and insincere, and it took him longer than it probably should have to realize what he was probably apologizing for. To realize that each sob seemed to be punctuated by the thrust and grind of Komaeda’s hips, that he could feel the hard length of him pressed tight against his belly. That between all the sobbing and the coughing, Komaeda was making needy little noises like whimpers as he rode against him restlessly, jittering and bucking up against him in search of friction and release.

“It’s… it’s okay,” he managed, closing his eyes tight and biting his lip to keep from screaming.

It was disturbing and embarrassing and wrong and it made him angry and inexplicably sad and sick all at once. Part of him, most of him maybe, was vaguely disgusted and wanted to push him away, back down into the water to cool off maybe, or just leave him there in the sand to take care of it by himself, revolted by the idea that Komaeda could still be turned on, still want to get off when he’d been… when they’d been….

But instead he found himself whispering nonsense platitudes to him, petting limp, cold, sopping wet hair with one hand while he held the other hand against the small of his back, urging him on a little, as much as he could stomach, as Komaeda continued to grind weakly against him. He wasn’t sure if he was crying or if he just felt like crying, but the falling rain kept sliding cold and relentless down his face nonetheless and his cheeks burned because even though they were the only ones there on that quiet stretch of beach, it was still mortifying. And he was the worst person in the world because he was getting a little hard again in spite of himself. He closed his eyes tighter, as tight as they would go, and tried to just focus on the sound of Komaeda sobbing against his neck, hoping it would calm his body down, because he knew that whatever compulsion had Komaeda moving against him like that it didn’t seem like something he was particularly enjoying. But even if he was, even if Komaeda really wanted to be doing that, Hajime was absolutely certain that it wasn’t anything that should be turning him on.

He wanted to wake up.

He wanted to disappear.

He really, really wanted Komaeda to hurry up and come already.

But the dream just went on and on and on.

And Komaeda just…

He realized eventually that Komaeda, whose head had dropped down to lull tiredly against his shoulder, had begun speaking softly at some point, his voice a hoarse, rasping, wrecked sound. His words sharp enough and cruel enough to cut them both as they dove recklessly into the deepest heart of him once he was able to make sense of them. Words like _sick_ and _trash_ and _disgusting_ and _worthless_ and he tried to beat them back with words of his own whispered through wet lips from a throat that was strangely dry. _Like_ and _okay_ and _sorry_ and _feel good_ and _want you_ , but he’s not sure how successful he is or even how much of it he really means. How much of it Komaeda can hear or accept, because he thinks that maybe, maybe, he’s beginning to understand that this is how this Komaeda is. That maybe this was how the real one was… is… too. Regardless, Komaeda’s fingers dig into his shoulders and those noises are getting louder, more urgent and he keeps trying, because he has to. He just… wants, no, he _needs_ Komaeda to be okay, even if it’s just here in his fucked up dreams, so he adds _please_ and _come on_ and _that’s it_ to the mix and tries not to shush him when the sobs get to be too much.

He feels tension stiffen Komaeda’s back and shoulders as those sounds and words turn into something like moans, desperate and frustrated, and his movements are becoming more disjointed, frantic like he’s too far gone to care, but nothing he’s doing is quite enough to push him over. For whatever reason, he seems unwilling to relinquish his hold on his neck even though it’s obvious that he needs more. Anything maybe. And Hajime wants him to come, isn’t even sure what he’s saying to him anymore as he shoves his fingers into the warm damp space between them to touch him, hold him, pull him over the edge, feel him spill out across his fingers and knuckles and palm. Cooler than maybe it should be but still warm against skin chilled by the ocean and the rain. Komaeda’s voice is soft and rough and more himself than he’s been since Hajime pulled him out of the water and he’s mewling needy, filthy things in his ear, his fingers digging narrow furrows in his back even after.

In the aftermath, he continues to run trembling fingers over him, though he isn’t really sure why he hasn’t just stopped except that Komaeda is still whimpering the word _yes_ over and over again and he’s echoing it, both of them caught like a record skipping over a scratch until that 'yes' is replaced by a ragged ' _too much_ ' against his shoulder. It sounds half pained and half hopeful, but he just nods and swallows hard and tucks him as gently as he can manage back into his cold, wet briefs. It’s really the best he can do one-handed but, just like Komaeda, he isn’t willing to completely relinquish his hold to do better.

For a long time, they stay like that with the rain beating down on them and his hand no longer curled around his dick, but instead just pressed between their bodies until Komaeda finally pulled back and began to shift slowly, painstakingly away. He unlocked his legs from around his waist, pulling them back and folding them beneath him so he was more kneeling over his his lap than sitting on it. He was a little surprised that he chose to stay so close as he struggled to fasten his pants with shaking hands, but he didn’t make any move to dissuade him. Instead, he just watched him fumble with the fastenings, still stroking his hair with his other hand because he wasn’t quite sure what else he should do. He’s too afraid to ask the question he knows he needs to ask. Too afraid of what the answer might be.

“Hinata,” he murmured, finally breaking into the silence that had fallen between them, his voice still rough and exhausted. He’s still looking down, pants and belt refastened, his hands tugging at the edge of his shirt, fingers worrying at the hem. “Don’t… _leave_. Don’t...”

“Komaeda, I…”

He shook his head abruptly and Hajime shut his mouth with a snap, teeth clanking together painfully. “No, just… not, not _yet_. It’s just that… it’s better when you’re here with me. I’m better when you’re here, so… I k-know that I… that trash like me doesn’t really have any right to ask for…”

“Shut up,” Hajime whispered, curling his fingers in his hair and using the hold to draw him back in enough to kiss him.

He just wanted him to shut up.

Just wanted to smother the litany of words that he doesn’t understand, words that make him ache and his stomach dive.

He doesn't really think much beyond that, but Komaeda opens for him, immediate and wanting and wet and he can't help but respond in kind. Komaeda's tongue slips past his lips, mapping the inside of his mouth and wriggle artlessly across his tongue and teeth and cheeks. There’s no skill to it, just an eagerness to taste and be tasted, to be close and he lifts the hand from between them to touch the side of his face. It still reeks of sex even though he's pretty sure it’s only wet with rainwater.

Eventually he draws back far enough that he can look into Komaeda’s wet face framed between his hands. He barely even looks like himself at all with his usually wild hair plastered in flat curls and waves against his head, “You’re not trash. You’re… I’ll stay as long as I can so j-just… shut up about all that, okay?”

“This is so pathetic, I’m so pathetic, but I-I just…” he replied, trailing off, his eyes still unfocused, still not quite looking at him and then he's surging forward, pressing their lips together again, more violently than before, as he uses his weight and the force of the movement to overbalance them, to shove him down into the sand.

The rain beat down against his hands where they tangled in Komaeda's hair, but it easy enough to ignore with the push and pull of those kisses to distract him. He could feel water puddling around his head, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. The kisses were still sloppy and he was pretty sure neither of them was actually much good at it, but it didn’t really seem to matter so much. For as much as he disliked him sometimes, for as much as he found him disgusting and disturbing sometimes, for as much as he freaked him out and even though he really didn’t understand him at all, he kind of loved kissing him. Maybe he just loved kissing in general, but he didn't think so. He thought he could probably spend all night, every night doing this with Komaeda for the rest of his life and never be bored.

It was a disconcerting thought.

Komaeda broke away eventually, propping himself up to stare down at him with wide, wild eyes, finally really looking at him again. “Do you want to fuck me?” He asked his voice a rush of sound, eager, almost manic. “You could, I’d let you, I’d like it, even if you wanted to… to do it from behind and pretend I was someone else, I’d…”

“You’re an idiot. Who would do that?” He grumbled, his fingers flexing where they’d slipped down to settle over his hips. “If… if we had… if we…. sex… I’d always know it was you.”

“I suppose you would,” Komaeda replied, smiling, but not like it made him happy. “On second thought, maybe it would be better if you left after all. The idea of fucking myself is… just unbearably contemptible, isn’t it?”

Hajime sighed scrubbing a damp, gritty hand over his wet face and grimacing, “Didn’t stop me from sucking your dick, but I guess even I have my limits, huh?”

“No, probably not,” Komaeda replied, sitting back and tracing his fingers up Hajime’s chest, flicking carelessly over the buttons on his shirt, tugging at his tie. His voice was flat and disinterested again, “If I were just a little bit less myself, I probably wouldn’t care. As long as it was you, I’d want to feel you inside me so I’d sit on your dick and ride you like this, maybe, that way I could watch your face. I’m not sure of all the logistics, but… I’d figure it out and I wouldn’t care if it hurt anyway. It’s no more than I deserve. Right, _Hinata_?”

The way he said his name, dragging the syllables out like it was a taunt, grated on his already fraying nerves.

“Who would agree with that?” He grouched, a little irritated that the rain kept falling on his face and in his eyes, making it impossible to glare at Komaeda properly. He swiped a hand across his face, dashing water out of his eyes, useless as it was. “You’re so….”

“Filthy? Worthless? Detestable? Pathetic? Covetous? Stupid?”

“ _Frustrating_!” He sat up, knocking a laughing Komaeda off into the puddle that was forming around them. He hit the water with a splash, still laughing, high and almost hysterical. “You’re really frustrating! I don’t want to hurt you! I never wanted to hurt you even… even after you got Chiaki killed, I was just sorry you were gone.”

“Chiaki?” Komaeda asked, the laughter dying away. He twitched his head to side as if he didn’t understand the word.

“Chiaki! Oh, come _on_ , Komaeda, _Nanami Chiaki_.”

“What about her?”

“What abo… _seriously_? We’re _seriously_ doing this? I mean… we’re talking about sex and you’re all… but everything else I have to explain to you like you have _no idea_ what I’m talking about? Like you and I don’t know all the same damn things.”

“Shut up,” Komaeda snapped, rubbing his forehead and looking away sullenly out at the ocean, the rain so heavy now that even though it was only a very short distance away, it might as well have been another world. “Just shut _up_ , Hinata. You’re just ordinary, nothing, just... dull and I…. _Why_ are you doing this? You're such a _liar_ , why are _we_ … why am I-I don’t… I don’t want _this_.”

It was almost a plea and Hajime shook his head wiping water off his face, trying to ignore the cascade that spilled down immediately to cover it again. “Look, can we just go inside and talk about this? Please?”

“You go. I don’t _want_ to. Why are you even here? I don’t need you. I don’t want you, not like this when you act like I’m… and not like _that_ either. You’re not even… _Why_?”

It was frustrating. This was all just so… _dammit_.

“Komaeda, come on, just… come on…”

“No!”

“You know what? _Fine_. Stay out here then. Enjoy the rain. I hope it’s really fun for you. I hope you have a really great time.” Hajime spat, finally fed up. He wasn’t going to just sit here in a puddle arguing with Komaeda… no… with _himself_. Just was just stupid. He was cold and he was wet and he just wanted this dream to be _over_ already. He pinched his arm and when that didn’t do the job, and he somehow wasn’t the least bit surprised that it didn’t, he shoved himself to his feet.

“Where are you…?” Komaeda asked, looking up at him as if he were honestly shocked at find him standing.

“I _told you_ , I’m going inside. I’m freezing and it’s terrible out here. Come with me or don’t, I don’t even care anymore, _I’m_ going inside.”

He’d barely gotten out of the puddle when Komaeda’s voice called him back.

“ _Please_ …!”

“What?” He sighed, turning around to look at him even though he was pretty sure he was going to regret it.

“Please don’t go,” Komaeda replied in a rush, that plea in his voice again as he looked away, back out at the ocean again, his fingers digging into the wounds in his thighs, though Hajime couldn’t tell if that part was purposeful or not. “I-I changed my mind. I’ll… we can… have sex, I’m already so desperately pathetic anyway it hardly matters if…”

“No. Hey, _no_ , I’m not… _dammit_ ,” Hajime sighed and flopping down on the ground beside him, water splashing everywhere. The puddle was getting pretty deep. It was like sitting in a shallow bathtub now, almost.

Had there been that big a dip in the beach? Must have been.

“Look, it’s not… it’s not because of that. I just… I just want to get out of the rain, that’s all, really. It’s not because of you. I want you to come with me, okay? I’m wet and I’m cold and… I just want to be _not_ wet and cold for a while since I’m obviously just not going to wake up anytime soon. We can go wherever you want, okay? So, just get up and I’ll…”

He saw Komaeda’s eyes widen, dark and panicked, as the bottom suddenly seemed to fall out of the world and they both fell with it, down, down, down. Plunging beneath the surface of the puddle that was suddenly a lake or an ocean, unfathomably deep and dark and cold.

There was something around his ankle.

Something that wrapped his ankle in a bone-crushing grip, ripping at his pants and sneaker like it was trying to reach the flesh beneath.

It dragged him down deep and deeper still into the frigid darkness below, as inevitable and inescapable as gravity.

He tried not to scream, but it didn’t help as panic choked him and shook a wide-mouthed cry from his lungs, a soundless stream of precious oxygen bubbling wasted from his lips. Water flooded his mouth as the air escaped and he was going to die. He was going to die here. He kicked out at whatever was holding him, dragging him down, but he didn’t connect with anything. He felt it tearing at shoe, tugging at the laces and felt it come free. Felt it rip his sock away as well and close, slimy and grotesque, around his bare foot. It squished around his toes, stinging and squelching and terrible as it crept over the arch of his foot as if it were consuming him from the bottom up.

He bent and tumbled round and dug his fingers into something gross and loose and fleshy, felt the too-soft skin of it break and give under his short, blunt nails, coming away in chunks and he almost can’t stop himself from screaming again. He felt something long and sharp, slice against his foot, something that had seemed to burst forth from that foul, pulpy stew of flesh and crawl up and over his foot to lodge sharp and jagged and terrible in his unguarded ankle, agonizing as it broke the skin, burrowed into the muscle and sinew beneath. He realized they were fingernails or something like it as he grabbed at them desperately, digging his own nails beneath them and pulling as hard as he could, until he felt one break loose and float away and the hold it had around his ankle weakened a little. Bile rose in his throat as he kicked out again, catching something well enough that he was suddenly moving away and while he could still feel the sharp, needling pain of those nails in his ankle, the tug, the inexorable pull that had been dragging him down moments before, was gone, at least for the moment.

He kicked hard, drove his arms through the water, adrenaline searing through his veins, back towards the surface. Or towards what he thought was the surface at any rate. He’d been so consumed with escaping that he’d lost track and he couldn’t really tell anymore. He just knew he needed to get away. He also knew he wasn’t going to make it. The water in his mouth couldn’t stay there forever and he was beginning to feel light-headed and queasy and it was getting harder to drive himself forward, more and more difficult with each stroke of his arms or kick of his heavy legs to focus on the dim grayish surface of the world that seemed too far away to reach.

Cold, firm fingers brushed against him once, twice, before they closed over his wrist, yanking him onwards and he tried to struggle, but he knew it wasn’t amounting to much, that whatever was pulling him this time would have him regardless. He was actually kind of surprised when he broke the surface, spitting water and coughing and gasping as Komaeda urged him toward the shore.

“Quick, move,” he rasped, pushing and shoving at him. He felt fingers or something like them catch against his bare heel again and he kicked at it, digging his fingers into the mud and pulling himself out of the puddle to flop on the damp, clinging sand. He glanced back to see Komaeda doing the same. Saw the tremble in his arms and he scrabbled up and grabbed for him even as Komaeda yelped, falling back into the water. He caught him around the shoulder and hauled him up, throwing all his weight backwards and he heard Komaeda cry out as he finally came free and tumbled onto the sand with him. They both scrambled frantically back away from the edge of the dark, quaking waters of the puddle, breathing hard.

“Wh-What the… what was…?” Hajime managed, shivering as he turned to look at Komaeda, who looked pale and utterly stunned and, though it was difficult to be sure because the rain was coming down louder and harder than ever, he was pretty sure was whimpering. “Hey, _hey_ ,” he called, taking hold of his narrow shoulders. “Komaeda, are you okay?”

“You just tried to drown yourself in a puddle, why wouldn’t _I_ be okay?” Komaeda laughed, hysteria giving the noise a sharp edge. “I wanted hope, I wanted you to stay. This must be my luck, right? This is… this is…”

“Okay, no, that’s… okay. This isn't even a little bit your fault,” Hajime sighed, patting his knee gingerly. He glanced back towards the puddle which had the nerve to just sit there looking harmless, the rain pounding down on the surface making it impossible to see within even if the water were clear enough for it.

And then he noticed the hand.

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to breath and count to ten as slowly as he could manage as his heart threatened to beat right out of his chest. Because, obviously, there was not a bloated, rotting hand wrapped around his ankle, it’s pulpy flesh white and putrid, it’s few remaining nails a familiar poison apple red and embedded in his ankle. There was definitely not a splintered bone sticking out the end that had probably been snapped in half by his frantic kick.

No, that was definitely not a thing that was happening.

 _Ten_.

He opened his eyes again.

It was still there.

Because _of course_ it was.

Of course it was.

His brain was just the absolute _worst_.

“Hey Hinata?”

“Yeah?” he croaked, his throat working violently against the urge to vomit.

“There’s a creepy hand-”

“I _know_ ,” he snapped, opening his eyes to glare at Komaeda. He changed his mind, this was really his fault after all. If he’d just gone with him inside when he wanted to none of this would have happened. “I _know_ that there’s a creepy hand, Komaeda. I’m not _blind_. And even if I _were_ , it's attached to my ankle. That'd be a little tough to miss.”

Of course, there could also be something worse waiting for him inside the beach house.

Maybe he should just sit here and hope he woke up soon.

Or maybe he should take Komaeda into the beach house and have sex with him up against the wall in the hopes that coming was the secret to waking up since neither pain or panic or just sitting around waiting was doing the trick. Hell, he could just jerk off here with that awful friggin' hand still clinging to him if that were the case. But, really, he’d never felt less like getting off in his life. Which, wasn’t really saying much come to think of it, since he couldn’t really remember most of his life anyway.

What the heck was _wrong_ with him? Because obviously something was. Had he always been like this and he just couldn’t remember?

“Hinata?”

“Yes, Komaeda?” He replied tiredly, realizing belatedly that he’d been staring at Komaeda all this time and that must have been kind of creepy too. This just wasn't his day. “What is it?”

“Do you want me to throw it back?”

“Please.”

He nodded, scooting forward and though he couldn’t have said why, he jerked his leg away from Komaeda’s reaching hand. Just something… something about the idea of him touching that bloated, ghastly thing was just… no. No way.

“No, wait, sorry, it-it’s fine, I’ll take care of it,” he muttered, shivering again as he reached down and peeled those fingers away from his skin one by one. He had to break two of them and one of the nails broke off of the hand and he had to dig it out of his ankle it was so deeply embedded. He managed to not throw up even though the acid taste burned his tongue and throat. Instead, he just choked and hacked and grimaced his way through the entire process, finally chucking all the loose bits in the direction of the puddle. Some sank, but others just floated there on the surface like tiny, gross ships without a harbor. He gagged a little as he looked back to Komaeda who was just watching him with an expression that was utterly blank, like the lights were on but no one was home.

He felt pain prick at his eyes and he choked back a sob, because somehow the only thing worse than being in this dream in the first place was being here without him. “Komaeda?”

Komaeda blinked once and then twice and then life flooded back into his face in the form of a sort of vague curiosity. It wasn’t much, but it was better than the empty, vacant look of a moment before. “Oh, it’s gone. That was fast,” he commented, his gaze focusing in on Hajime’s ankle. “You’re bleeding.”

Yeah. His brain was really just the worst.

“Yeah, I know. Look, we need to get out of the rain. We’ll go up to the beach house and…” He trailed off because Komaeda just stared at him blankly as if he either couldn’t comprehend the words or maybe why Hajime was saying them and he had to admit he was feeling a bit like a broken record.

He wished he could just reject all this, reject this shadow version of Komaeda that was by turns everything he needed and nothing he wanted. He honestly wasn’t really sure why he kept letting himself be pulled into his orbit over and over again. This version he’d dreamed up of a Komaeda that was so delicate and fragile and prickly and confusing and revolting and compelling and so very terribly _broken_ was just… impossible to disregard. He wanted to protect him as much as he wanted to just wreak him and it was an awful feeling. Every moment he spent with him felt like he was spiraling further and further out of control, just free-falling to earth with nothing to halt his descent or mitigate the impact. Every time he touched him he felt his grip on reality crumble a little more, but knowing that didn’t help. He wasn’t entirely sure why he couldn’t just… just leave him alone, but he couldn’t.

Earlier, when this latest dream had started, when he’d seen him sitting on that tree looking out at the ocean, he could have just kept going. There had even been a moment- just a fraction of a second, but there nonetheless- when he’d considered it. Komaeda hadn’t seen him, probably hadn’t known he was there at all. There had been nothing to stop him from just walking on down that lonely road alone. He could have just gone off to the other side of the island or a different island entirely and sat down somewhere and waited to wake up. Komaeda never came to him, he always went to him, like a moth drawn to a flame and… he thought he probably always would. He’d just keep coming back, seeking him out, because he wanted to keep talking to him and arguing with him and doing all those _other_ things with him and… ugh.

Maybe it was just that he’d never been any good at just leaving him be and that was the truth of it. Even when he’d kind of hated him, even though he still didn’t really like him all that much. He’d never been any good at just leaving him to his own devices. And he didn’t hate him now. Whatever else he felt for him or about him, he didn’t hate him, and this Komaeda had saved him. Even if it was just a case of him saving himself from himself, he still didn’t want to just leave him here by that awful puddle and whatever was lurking beneath the surface.

He was sure that if he left now. If he stormed off and didn’t drag him bodily along with him, if he just left him there sitting on the wet sand in the pouring rain, he was sure that Komaeda wouldn’t follow. He’d just… let him go.

And that somehow seemed like the worst thing in the world.

That image of Komaeda kneeling in the dirt beside that monstrous puddle, watching him walk away, _letting_ him walk away, without a word of protest seemed like it would haunt him long after he woke up.

And then there was the strange, pervasive idea that if he sat there long enough that puddle would just expand and swallow him up and Komaeda would be gone and he’d never see him again and it was _stupid_. Really stupid, but he just couldn’t shake the thought.

“I don’t like it there,” Komaeda replied suddenly, sullenly, but he let Hajime grab his hand and tug him to his feet. He wobbled a bit once he was standing and he used his free hand to brace him, press against his side until he seemed steady even as his other hand lingered in Komaeda’s cool grasp, their fingers clasped loosely. He thought about pulling it free, since it felt a little awkward, but he didn’t.

He wanted to kiss him again.

He didn’t do that either.

He just turned once he was pretty sure he wasn’t just going to just fall over and trudged up the beach towing Komaeda behind him towards the little house where Mahiru had died.

Where Peko had murdered her.

Honestly, it wouldn’t have been his first choice either and he didn’t blame him for not liking it, for not wanting to go there. He didn’t really have any good memories of that beach house, wasn’t even sure if it had any lights or anything because he’d never been there at night and the only windows he could see were dark and lifeless as they made their way up the beach. He thought for a moment about suggesting that they keep going. That they pass the house by and follow the path up through the tunnel around to the diner instead, but he could feel the way Komaeda was starting to stumble, as if his legs were stiff and every step was an effort. Plus, the rain was cold and they were both soaking wet. There might be some towels at the beach house at least. So, maybe they’d just stop there to dry off and then he could carry Komaeda up to the diner.

Fuck.

_Carry Komaeda up to the diner._

That was a thing. A thing that he'd just seriously considered as a totally reasonable thing to do.

He was just completely losing it, wasn’t he?

Thinking about getting him warm and dry, taking him to the diner because the beach house was nothing but uncomfortable memories for both of them? Man-eating monster puddles? Holding him down under the water while he… while _they_... got off? He still wasn't sure. Just that it made him feel sick and uncomfortable every time he thought about it. How stupid. It was just a dream. Just a stupid, stupid nightmare no matter how often he forgot. He couldn’t really take care of him or make him feel better or get him dry or keep him safe. He couldn’t do any of that, because he wasn’t _real_. None of this was real.

But, seriously, how the hell had they even gotten to the second island anyway? He was sure they’d been on the first island when the dream had first started. So, why were they even… _ugh_. Why did it _bother_ him so much that he didn't know? That there was this huge gapping hole between watching Komaeda disappear into the rain and humping him on the beach like a total pervert? Why did that part just keep _needling_ at him? _Why?_

He was so tired of trying to make sense of it. He wasn’t sure why he even bothered with the attempt when it never came to anything.

Inside the beach house, the tiles felt damp, almost slimy, and the air was warm, humid from the damp. Hajime shivered despite the heat as he flicked the switch on the wall and he wasn’t even a little surprised when no light came on. Thunder rumbled and crashed outside as lightning flashed, lighting up the darkened room briefly. He could see Komaeda’s old clothes strewn across the floor, covered in sand, but… there were far too many of them. The same patterns over and over, like looking down at lengths of discarded wallpaper. “Why… why are there so many?” He asked, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness.

Komaeda shrugged listlessly, leaning back against the wall next to the door as if he were planning an escape and didn’t want to move too far from the exit. “Don’t know. Told you. That’s all there is. There’s a never-ending supply in the closet. They’re all just the same.”

“That’s… crazy,” Hajime murmured.

“Don’t call me crazy,” Komaeda warned and through the darkness he couldn’t quite make out his expression. His voice wasn’t quite angry, but it was kind of cold and there was a definite threat in it. “Not _you_. I’m not… I’m not _crazy_.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Hajime sighed. Even fake Komaeda was hard work. “Just the clothes thing. The clothes thing is weird.”

“Oh. Yeah. I guess.”

“Is that why you’re wearing my shirt instead of your own?”

Komaeda nodded, his fingers fisting and curling around the shirt where the hem lay limp and crumpled and dirty across his thighs. “That too.”

“Why else?”

“Because it’s… hope. Hope that this isn’t… that you’re…”

“That I’m…?”

“Nothing, it doesn’t matter,” Komaeda replied, shrugging. “I could still suck you off if you want.”

“No, that’s okay,” Hajime replied uneasily. He was beginning to wonder if Komaeda used sex as a distraction technique or if he was just really that into the idea. “How about I go see if there are any towels, okay?”

“There are. There was a stack,” Komaeda murmured, gesturing in the vague direction of the closet. “It’s in there.”

“Okay,” Hajime murmured, stepping through into the dark of the closet. It was somehow even warmer and more unpleasant in there than out in the main room and so dark that he could only make out the vague shapes of the shelves. He heard Komaeda step in behind him, stepping so close that his breath caught.

“Up there,” he murmured, one hand slipping over his shoulder to point at one of the shelves. Lightning flashed as thunder crashed and he thought he could make out a tall pile that could have been towels on the shelf Komaeda was pointing to. He stepped forward and stood up on his toes to reach them, sliding the whole pile of soft terrycloth off the shelving and turning to find himself staring at Komaeda’s back as he retreated back into the main room. He followed, feeling strangely bereft like he’d lost something, but he couldn’t think of why.

A glance back and another well-timed lightning strike reminded him that there was a rack at the back of the closet that used to hold wet suits and he could see was now full of clothes. He turned back into the closet and stepped closer to the rack, setting the pile of towels down on the shelf beside him so he could reach out and touch the clothes hanging there. Weird that he should be able to recognize the texture of Komaeda’s jacket just by running his fingers across the sleeve. Maybe it was just because he was expecting it to be his jacket and that was why. Just like Komaeda had said, it seemed like everything hanging on that rack was just another copy of that same outfit. Could he just not imagine Komaeda in anything else? That seemed really weird, because he thought… he thought he could picture him in other things. In soft, dark knit shirts, or maybe stupid novelty t-shirts or even other dress shirts like his own. In… in skinny jeans or the sort of soft loose cloth pants they were all wearing at the hospital. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him in any of those things. And, honestly, if his stupid imagination could manage grotesque things like that hand and the man-eating puddle then it should be able to give him something more to wear than just… this.

Not that it mattered, of course. Not that he cared. It would be a little crazy to be standing in this dark, humid closet wondering why he couldn’t play proper dress up with his _pretend boyfriend_.

Well, that was an unbearably depressing way of describing it.

Friend with benefits, maybe? But were they really friends?

Dream lover? Well, no, that was even lamer.

Fuck buddy? That was a thing wasn't it? But... probably inaccurate.

Imaginary playmate? Well, that just made him sound like he was fooling around with a little kid. Gross.

Was there a better phrase for it? Did it matter? Was there really any phrase that could possibly downplay the fact that he was clearly losing what was left of his mind? That could make it seem like it wasn’t completely insane to be standing in the dark by himself wondering why he couldn’t dress Komaeda up in nicer clothes that covered the giant spear wound in his chest so that they would both feel better about it.

In the end he snatched two clothes-laden hangers angrily off the rack and laid the clothes over the towels, carrying the whole lopsided pile back out of the closet, kicking the door closed behind him with way more force than was strictly necessary.

Back it the main room Komaeda had already gone back to leaning against the wall near the beachside door, looking pallid and wet and skinny and a little sickly in the dim light. He startled a bit at the loud bang of the door, but he didn’t look back at him. His arms were wrapped tight around his chest as he stared out the window at the storm or the ocean beyond or maybe at nothing at all; it was impossible to tell.

Hajime blew out an annoyed breath and held out one of the towels after setting the rest on the little table by the window. Komaeda looked up at him briefly out of the corner of his eye, but made no move to take it.

“You should dry off,” he sighed, stepping closer and pressing the towel against Komaeda’s wet stomach. That close he could see that he was shivering, could feel the tremble of it through the towel and the press of his hand behind it.

“W-why?” Komaeda replied, seemingly genuinely confused by the request.

“I don’t know, just humor me, okay?” Hajime sighed again, unfolding the towel and shaking it out before draping it over Komaeda’s head. He rubbed the soft cloth roughly over his hair until Komaeda batted his hands away and reluctantly took over. “Take off your clothes too, okay?”

“I…”

He could see the protest coming a mile off and decided to just head it off at the pass rather than waste a lot of time arguing about it. He really did seem to love to argue with himself.

“I’m not going to steal your damn shirt or anything. I just want to get you dry. Just take it off. We’ll ring it out then you can put it right back on if you want. You should put on dry pants though. What’s the point of having like fifty pairs of them if you can’t change them out?”

Komaeda shrugged, but his fingers went to the shirt buttons, popping them loose one after the other. Hajime tried not to watch, to ignore the twinge of desire as he watched those nimble fingers move from button to button, steadier now than they had been or so it seemed. He tried to ignore the chest wound as it was unveiled, to not think about sticking his fingers in… god, he needed to get it together. This was ridiculous. Sometimes he felt like he was one awkward touch or moment away from just humping Komaeda’s leg or something. It really was embarrassing how little self-control he actually had.

Komaeda peeled the shirt from his shoulders and let it drop to the floor with a wet slap before loosening his belt and shimmying out of his clinging pants and briefs. It took a lot more effort than it seemed like it should and by the time he’d managed to peel them down his legs and kick his way free of them he was panting and coughing again. He slumped back against the wall as if even standing were too much effort to bother with, naked except for the towel draped over his shoulders.

When it became obvious that Komaeda had no intention of moving anytime soon, Hajime sighed and tried to focus on making the process of patting him dry as impersonal as possible. He could feel him shivering again (still?) so he tried to be fast and through about it. He wasn’t doing this because he wanted to or because he enjoyed it, it was just to get him dry because he seemed too exhausted to do it himself. That was all. No ulterior motives. He was just being nice. There wasn’t anything wrong with it, with him. Nope, just a totally normal pat down between friends, nothing to see here, folks, move along.

He really needed to get damn grip already.

His thoughts became a litany of all the things he didn’t want to do as he pressed the towel along Komaeda’s long skinny arms and down the pale canvas of his chest and stomach covered as they were in old, fading scars and fresh wounds. He nervously skirted the wounds, pressed tentative and careful over the many bruises, flowering clouds of color bursting across his clammy skin in trails and spots like objects in space that he most definitely did not want to press his lips against. Just as he most certainly did not want to suck on those nipples that were so hard and almost purple in the dim light, particularly the one that almost disappeared beneath a particularly vivid pattern of bruising high on the left side of his chest. He did _not_ want to shove his fingers inside that open wound again, feel that pulsing heat and hear the soft, shattered sounds Komaeda would make. He did not want to wrap his fingers and his tongue around that soft cock and tease and suckle it until it became long and hard and warm in his mouth. Nope. No interest in that. No interest in feeling him come across his tongue rather than down his throat this time so he could taste it, _really_ taste it, really feel it. He did not want to touch all the places he hadn’t touched yet, the soft, delicate skin of his balls, the back of his knobby knees, the taunt muscle of his shins or those trembling, shivering thighs. He most definitely didn’t want Komaeda’s long fingers to press inside him and he absolutely _did not_ want Komaeda to... to _fuck_ him on the cold, hard, damp tile floor of the beach house until he came screaming his name.

He didn’t even honestly know what that would entail; not really, he only had sort of a vague conceptual idea of how it was done between guys when it came to actual sex in the first place. As Fuyuhiko might have said, he was pretty certain he knew where tab A met slot B or whatever, but not much of the logistics beyond that. All he really knew besides that was that he didn’t want to be the one sticking it in, especially the first time, when there was a chance he’d hurt him without meaning to, by just not knowing what the heck he was doing, but he _liked_ the way the word sounded.

_Fuck._

Liked the warm, frantic blurry images it brought to mind every time Komaeda said it, every time he thought about it now, images that usually involved Komaeda’s breath against the back of his neck and his dick inside him, filling up all the empty places even if he wasn’t terribly clear on how that might actually feel as the only comparison he really had was jerking himself off or jerking Komaeda off or the feel of Komaeda’s dick in his mouth that one time and he was pretty sure none of those were really at all the same thing. He just knew that he _wanted_ it. Wanted to be close and closer still in every conceivable way with him which he would have found _a lot_ more disturbing earlier. Now he could almost just accept it.

“Hinata?” Komaeda’s voice was soft, but it drew him back to himself and he realized he was kneeling on the floor, wiping the towel down Komaeda’s long, pale legs. Komaeda’s fingers were brushing through his hair, gentle, coaxing and he shuddered, forcing his focus to remain on Komaeda’s knees as he finished wiping the towel down his shins, careful not to press too hard against the cuts and bruises he found there.

“Yeah?” He asked finally, unsure if he really wanted to know.

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” he managed, clearing his throat and pressing the towel against the tops of Komaeda’s feet before snagging a dry towel from the pile and wrapping it around Komaeda’s waist, tucking it in to secure it and smoothing it out. He slowly climbing back to his feet again, barely standing again before he felt Komaeda’s cool hands against his cheeks holding him in place for the kiss that followed.

It was just the press of lips, a little damp and a little cool, shy and hesitant and sweet in a way none of their kisses up to this point had been. It felt… intimate in a way that made the hot, heavy, devouring kisses in the hotel room and even the eager, artless, messy kisses on the beach seem strangely impersonal and unreal.

He swallowed hard, raising his own hands to rest against the back of Komaeda’s, just the barest touch of his fingers like he was afraid he’d frighten him away if he pressed too hard.

“You should dry off too,” Komaeda murmured finally, drawing back a little, his gaze warm, almost feverish.

“Yeah,” he croaked, his voice unaccountably rough as he turned away, clearing his throat again and started the slow, painfully awkward process of undressing. Tie first, loosened and pulled over his head in quick, angry jerks. Shirt next, his fingers trembling on the buttons so that it took several tries before he managed to actually get them undone, and he dropped it carelessly to the floor. Then shoes, socks, pants (his belt clanked so loudly in the high-ceiled room) and finally underwear all met the floor with heavy, wet smacks. Thunder continued to crash outside and lightning to flash, casting strange long shifting shadows on the wall every minute or so. He’d been so caught up in watching them that he hadn’t seen Komaeda move or maybe he was just suddenly there, his hand appearing in Hajime’s peripheral vision holding out a dry towel.

“You may be boring and ordinary, Hinata, but you’ve never been hard on the eyes,” he said softly, the fingers of his free hand pressing briefly against Hajime’s bare back, just over the base of his spine. Heat shivered through him at that simple touch.

It was perilously close to a compliment and he felt the burn of that in his cheeks. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever been complimented on his appearance before. He probably had, he knew he was attractive enough, but nothing came immediately to mind. Or maybe it was just somehow different to hear it said in that particular way, by that particular boy. “Y-yeah, thanks, I guess.”

“It’s just a fact. Are you cold?”

“I don’t know. A little,” he murmured, taking the towel and wrapping it around his waist. Funny. He’d been freezing earlier. Now he was almost uncomfortably warm. He turned around to snag another from the pile to finish drying his hair and shoulders and found Komaeda already holding one out. He smiled as he took it, murmuring a quiet thanks. Komaeda just nodded, his expression strangely contemplative.

“There’s no hot water in the showers,” he commented suddenly.

“I guess there wouldn’t be. The lights didn’t work either,” Hajime replied, rubbing the towel over his damp, clammy skin. “I thought maybe we could go up to the diner. I mean, it’s probably not much better or warmer than here, but… at least it wouldn’t be somewhere one of our friends died.”

“They weren’t your friends, you know,” Komaeda replied, his tone still conversational, casual. “They weren’t anyone’s friends. They were Ultimate Despair. _We_ were Ultimate Despair.”

“Yeah, I know, but… I don’t think that makes the friendships we built here any less real,” Hajime replied immediately, earning himself a derisive snort.

“We’re not even on the same level, Hinata, how could you possibly think we were _friends_? The talentless cannot exist on the same plane of existence as the talented, not really; birds and fish can never be _friends_. It’s just the way of the world. We can’t help being what we are.”

“What are we then? If not friends?” He asked and he immediately regretted it. When he looked at him, he found that Komaeda was all poise and condescension. This was the confident Komaeda, the insidious Komaeda, the one who played devil’s advocate in trials, who didn’t seem to care about anything or anyone or who he hurt so long as he got his point across, as long as he got what he wanted though he wasn’t even sure if even _Komaeda_ knew what that truly was half the time. Hajime felt his stomach sink into the vicinity of his shoes because he knew he wouldn’t be able to convince him of anything like this. He hated that look.

And he was so tired of _this_. Of these quicksilver mood changes that seemed to happen at random, with no warning whatsoever. Of caring, of not caring, of wanting to help him and then realizing he _couldn’t_ help him, he couldn’t help him because he wasn’t _real_. He wasn’t anything. He was just so very, dreadfully tired of all of it.

Heck, he couldn't even help himself, really.

He knew none of this was real. He did. He _did_.

But.

But this stupid dream just seemed to go on and on, so much longer than all the others, by turns both better and infinitely worse and he couldn’t… he couldn’t keep doing _this_. He felt like he was going to rip himself in two trying to force a divide in his brain between the things he knew were real and what wasn’t and he just… he couldn’t keep track. He knew he couldn’t. How many times had he forgotten since the dream began? Forgotten that he couldn’t die here? Couldn’t be injured here? That he wasn’t really kissing him, that he wasn’t really hurting him either. That neither of them could be loved or touched or saved really, because neither of them really existed here in any way that mattered. They were all just parts of him, just firing synapses and surging hormones and he was so tired of feeling guilty, of trying so hard to be good. Of trying to be kind and trying to keep it together and be the levelheaded one, the understanding one, intuitive and good at listening, the ultimate counselor as Fuyuhiko had put it what seemed like a thousand years ago now. Trying to be everything to everyone both in here and out there. He was just so tired of playing at being the best Hinata Hajime he could be when, really, he didn’t even know who that was anymore… if he’d ever really known at all.

Maybe that had been half the problem. Maybe that was why… why he’d wanted so badly to be special. And maybe… maybe Izuru had always been there, some version of him, beneath the surface of Hinata Hajime, scratching at the ceiling of his soul waiting for a chance to claw his way through to freedom. Maybe they’d given him all that talent and just scrapped away the Hinata Hajime-flavored surface layer, inadvertently weakening that thin veneer of personality that imprisoned him and allowing Izuru to emerge fully-formed from the darkness within him like some sort of eldritch horror. Maybe the most awful, terrifying parts that lay at the core of who and what Izuru had been, the essential threads that had driven him had just been some hidden, secret part of Hinata Hajime all along.

Maybe that was the secret, maybe that was the truth he wanted to forget the most.

Maybe.

“We are nothing. Just a way to pass the time,” Komaeda replied easily, earnestly, like he believed his words to be an absolute, inarguable truth. “Even an ordinary, talentless nobody is capable of providing a warm hole to stick it in.”

“Really? That’s it?” Hajime inquired, feeling strangely, unsettlingly calm. He set the towel he’d been using to dry his hair aside and stepping closer until they were almost nose-to-nose. He still hated that Komaeda was taller. Hated it. “So, you’re fine with my leaving you behind here? You’re fine by yourself?”

“Why not? It’s not like I need you,” Komaeda said, but his voice was softer, just the barest edge of hesitation. “You’re not even real… you’re just a cheap imitation of him. You’re just… the boy from the beach, pretty to look at, but nothing I need. No one special at all, no one.”

“Let me tell you a secret, Komaeda,” Hajime replied, leaning forward so he could say the words into Komaeda’s ear without having to see his expression. It felt a little bit like he was embracing the crazy, but he couldn’t keep seesawing back and forth and beating himself up for forgetting the difference between dream and reality. The guilt and the confusion caused by his own actions, the sick feeling caused by Komaeda’s quicksilver personality changes, the terror caused by the horrors this nightmare seemed intent on creating for him; if he kept trying to reason all those things out and reconcile them with reality they would eventually break him down and eat him alive. He was certain of it. Best just to go with it. Here… here it was safe. Safe to let it out, to stop trying so hard, maybe figure out who he actually was between the boy he had been and the monster he became and the man he was now. He could feel bad about it later when he was back in the waking world, but for now… for now he’d just go with it. Hell, maybe that was the secret to waking up. To just… do what he wanted and say what he wanted and try not to be such an angst-ridden little bitch about it. This was as good a place as any to start.

“You’re right. I’m not really Hinata Hajime at all. I’m just the boy who woke up on the beach and began going through the motions, but even if I’m not special to you, you’re special to me. You’ll always be special to me. Yours was the first face I saw, the first voice I heard calling to me in the dark and even after everything I can’t leave you alone. I don’t know why, but I can’t. It’s like being obsessed, it’s probably not healthy at all, but I want you with me. I want to touch every part of you. I want to talk to you and argue with you and sometimes I want to hit you in the head with a fucking rock because you can be a real asshole when you want to be. But you’re never boring and I don’t think I bore you either, not really, because I think you want me even when you’re like this. Even when you don’t care or even when you just pretend you don’t because you don’t think I do,” he drew a hand up Komaeda’s chest, sliding it through his drying hair and around the back of his neck. Felt the hitch in his breath, the way Komaeda’s body swayed towards him and smiled. “I think you want me with you just as badly as I want you with me. Tell me you don’t, Komaeda, tell me you want me to leave you here and I will. I’ll leave you here for now. I’ll probably try and find you again later, but for now I’ll leave you alone. Is that what you want, Komaeda?”

“You’re incredibly dull,” Komaeda replied, his tone like a dare, as he found Hajime’s free hand with his own, tangling their fingers together. He almost groaned, of all the things they’d done with each other and to each other, nothing had felt as good as those fingers seeking out and tangling with his own. Like connection, a need and a purpose fulfilled. Why did something that simple feel so damn _nice_? “So pathetically ordinary that I can hardly stand to be around you at all. I hate the way you carry on.”

“And I hate the way you never know when to shut up,” Hajime murmured, pressing his lips against the shell of Komaeda’s ear, the skin still cool and a little damp. “Let’s get dressed and get out of here.”

“Yes.” 

 

**+++**

The water beat loud against the plastic tarp, streaming off behind them and splashing against Hajime’s bare heels as they hurried up the path and across the deserted parking lot to the diner. The door was unlocked and the string of bells tied to the inside of the door clanked obnoxiously as he yanked it open and shoved Komaeda inside, dropping the tarp and followed after as the heavy glass door swung closed behind them with another ringing, jangling clatter of those bells. He couldn’t remember if there had actually been bells on the diner door in the game.

Maybe there had been, maybe not, it didn’t really matter.

Komaeda breathed out a sigh that sounded a little like a quiet ‘huh’ as he stepped further into the narrow aisle between the bar and the booths.

The electricity was on in here as well. He’d noticed the big neon sign outside was all lit up, impossible to miss even with the tarp and the torrent of rain, but he hadn’t really held out much hope for the interior being lit up, but it was.

Kind of.

Little bits of neon glowing soft and pink and yellow in the darkness, the exit sign was harsh and red and the jukebox near the back hall was lit up as well. Even the coffee machine on the counter had a little orange light on indicating that it had power… or something, he actually wasn’t certain what that light meant. The various neon writing on the wall advertising ice cream and coffee were lit as well, bright in the darkness, more than enough light to see by which already made the place a vast improvement over the beach house.

Hajime looked around for a light switch, something to flip on the big hanging lamps over aisle, but there was nothing near the door. He set down the towels he’d brought along on the table of the first booth. “I’m going to see if I can find a light switch or a flashlight or something.”

“Okay,” Komaeda replied distractedly, wandering off towards the yellow and pink glow of the jukebox at the back of the aisle. He’d seen enough of the back hall in the game to know it was pitch black and windowless back there so he’d have a much better time if he found a flashlight or something so he wasn’t just feeling around in the dark and hoping for the best. He was pretty sure that was just asking for trouble and really the last thing he needed to cap this bullshit dream off was a carnivorous bathroom or something.

As Hajime slipped behind the counter to look for a switch there first or- failing that- a flashlight, he heard the soft click-clack sound of a button being pushed and then another. He glanced up to find Komaeda was standing, his shoulders hunched, in front of the jukebox, pressing buttons and flipping through the song book inside using a little dial on the front of the box. Nothing seemed to be happening though no matter how many buttons he pressed. “Maybe it needs change?” He suggested and Komaeda laughed.

“You think so?”

“I don’t know, maybe? Let me see what I can find,” he replied, turning his attention back to his search.

There was an amazing amount of random junk under the counter. Some of it was the kind of thing you’d expect to find in a restaurant: cups, silverware, paper napkins and ketchup bottles, extra coffee pots and packets of little crackers. A lot of it though was just random stuff: children’s toys and a bunch of old lottery tickets and dusty paperbacks and cassette tapes. He found a couple of packaged glow sticks and a box of matches that he shoved in the pockets of his borrowed pants before finally coming up with an ancient red and grey handled flashlight. He flipped the big switch on the handle and was pleasantly surprised when it flickered to life.

“Great,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet. He was about to turn away from the counter when he saw a glass jar of change labeled ‘tips’ in big childish writing. He picked it up, shaking the jar in Komaeda’s direction. Komaeda turned back to him, smiling at the find.

“I think it takes 100yen coins,” he commented and Hajime fished a few from the jar, pushing them across the counter.

“Knock yourself out,” he grinned, their fingers brushing as Komaeda took the coins and offered him another bright smile before hurrying back over to the machine. He heard the chink of coins slipping into the slot followed by the soft click-clack of buttons and he shook his head turning his attention back to the counter. He pulled out a packet of the crackers and ripped it open, suddenly ravenous, which made sense, he supposed, since he hadn’t really had much of anything besides coffee all day.

He turned to look at the coffee machine hopefully as he finished his crackers. After a couple moments of peering at it though, he gave it up as a bad job. Too many unlabeled buttons and switches of indeterminate origin and purpose. For all he knew he’d hit a couple and it’d throw the damn coffee pot at him or try to eat his hand or something.

He turned back to grab another bag of crackers since all the ones he’d eaten had seemed to do was make him more aware of the fact that he was hungry. He pulled several bags out of the box below the counter and realized that while Komaeda was still over at the jukebox pressing buttons, maybe a little faster and with more force than before if the sharp click-clack sounds were any indication, there wasn’t any music coming out of the box yet. Figured that the damn thing would be broken, it wasn’t like he’d ever listened to much music. “You hungry?” He asked, jiggling one of the cracker packets. “There are enough of these back here to feed a really tiny army.”

“Huh? Oh, um, no?” Komaeda replied uncertainly, sounding distracted. “I don’t… I don’t think I can get…”

He trailed off into silence and while Hajime couldn’t see his expression, he could see the tension in the rigid line of his spine as he pressed his palms against the glass top of the jukebox. Something about that posture reminded him of the tension he’d seen in the shoulders of Naegi’s Togami earlier that morning. “Komaeda?” He asked quietly, knowing with a sort of soft, inevitable dread that something bad was about to happen.

Komaeda made a sound like a sob and brought a hand crashing down against the glass top of the jukebox. The resulting bang was so loud it made Hajime jump even though he saw it coming. The jukebox leapt to life, whirling and clicking as Komaeda slammed his clenched fist down against it again, sobs like screams tearing free from his chest as he kicked out at the machine. It was so sudden that for long moments, Hajime stood frozen unable to quite process Komaeda’s rage or what had set him off. He wasn’t… he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Komaeda actually angry before. Hadn’t even been sure he could get angry really.

Komaeda slapped his hands against the top of jukebox again and when he flung his hands back to get up the momentum to do it again something wet splashed across Hajime’s face and he noticed that the white countertop was dotted and streaked with red.

He cursed.

He’d thought he heard the glass crack under that last blow, but he hadn’t realized what that might mean. Stupid. He dropped the cracker packets, crushing them beneath his feet as he scrambled up and over the counter clumsily. He heard the shatter and clatter of spice shakers and napkin dispensers against the tile floor as he knocked them out of his way in his hurry to get to Komaeda and stop him from hurting himself more seriously than he already had. When he hopped down on the other side, he felt glass slice into his feet and yelped, but he was too panicked to bother with it just yet, his heart in his throat as he limped forward and grabbed his shoulders and pulling him back away from the jukebox.

He turned his fury on him instead, fists slamming into his chest as he made shushing sounds and winced under the rain of heavy blows. “Komaeda! Komaeda, it’s okay,” he tried getting only a harsh bark of laughter in response in between the sobs. Of course, he probably could have managed a more convincing argument if he’d actually known what the hell had set him off, but he _didn’t_. He didn’t know anything except that he really wanted Komaeda to just stop _hitting_ him already.

“ _Nagito_!” He roared, grabbing thin, damp shoulders and shaking him briskly.

Komaeda stilled altogether, going limp like someone had pulled his plug. “ _Don’t_ ,” he whispered, his voice just the barest whisper of sound. “He doesn’t call me that. _Please_ …”

“What… Komaeda, I…” he tried again, feeling a little embarrassed at having used his first name in the first place when they weren’t…. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“No,” Komaeda replied, his fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough that he was sure they’d leave little round bruises behind. “No. It’s fine, it’s… I don’t….”

He trailed off as if he’d lost the thread of whatever he’d meant to say and all the fight seemed to drain out of him. He made a soft wounded noise and fell loose and boneless against him and Hajime was pretty sure that if he hadn’t thrown his arms around him and caught him awkwardly up against his chest then he’d have just fallen to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.

The jukebox continued to play as they stood there in awkward silence some woman warbling away in English. It was a nice enough sound but not one he thought he’d ever heard before. He recognized the words though he’d never been the best student when it came to English, at least not that he remembered, but her diction was very clear and… maybe this was another dream thing. Being able to understand things, languages, you might not normally understand. Maybe. Or maybe Izuru had had a talent for languages as well.

“ _…drove me nearly out of head while you never shed a tear… remember… I remember all that you said…_ ”

Hajime snorted, burying his face against Komaeda’s damp hair, “I think they’re playing our song. I really have a pretty terrible sense of humor.”

“Ella Fitzgerald,” Komaeda murmured, lips moving against Hajime’s collarbone. His voice was soft and toneless, like someone reading lines from a really boring play, just marking time. Eventually he seemed a little steadier, taking a bit more of his own weight even while he continued to lean against him. “My father liked records, he had dozens, a whole collection on a shelf next to the player in his study that I wasn’t allowed to touch. He’d play them some nights, late, after I was supposed to be in bed while he was working and I laid down on the floor by the door sometimes to listen to them. The sound echoed right up the stairs. I fell asleep there one night listening and when my mother asked what would possess me to do such a thing, I told her I liked the music.

“After that he would play them before dinner each night, while I was doing my homework. He didn’t usually like to be around me much, but he would allow me to do my work on the floor of his study so I could listen. Sometimes he would tell me about them. The names of singers and albums and bands and songs and when he had first heard them, that sort of thing, so that was really good luck… my falling asleep like that. Really, really good luck, because there wouldn’t be any music if I didn’t, right? Everything after... I thought getting caught was bad luck, but maybe it was good luck because I can still hear it. Hell isn’t so bad with a soundtrack, right? Are we dancing?”

“I don’t think this qualifies,” Hajime answered, trailing his fingers over Komaeda’s damp tangled hair. “Do you want to?”

“I wouldn’t know how,” Komaeda replied, shrugging. “And you’re bleeding all over the place. I feel like I’m going to slip and fall on my ass any second.”

“You’re one to talk,” Hajime snorted, scooping up Komaeda’s bleeding hand and bringing it up his mouth, licking over the cuts there. Komaeda sighed, winding his unwounded arm around his Hajime’s waist and leaning back a little to watch him.

“This is better than sitting in the rain,” he commented, pressing his damp, wounded fingers against Hajime’s lips. He obligingly opened for them, sucking at the tips, lapping up the blood that stained those digits before allowing them to slip back out with wet popping sounds. It didn’t taste like much of anything, but he liked the way Komaeda’s eyelids drooped as he watched him do it.

“Glad you think so. It’s always nice to know where I rate,” Hajime smiled, dropping his hand.

“We should get you cleaned up too,” Komaeda replied, fingers dancing across his bare back. He hadn’t bothered to put on either his own wet shirt or one of Komaeda’s weird bloody, holey t-shirts before they’d left the beach house. He’d kind of been hoping he’d find a t-shirt in the diner. He might still really, he wasn’t sure, but it seemed like the kind of place that probably sold novelty t-shirts with that obnoxious logo on it. “You want me to lick _your_ wounds?”

“Probably. Sounds like something I’d like,” Hajime replied, shrugging as he steered him back across the floor to the nearest booth and slid his hands down his back, over his ass to cup and hold at the top of his thighs so he could lift him up and slide him backwards to sit on the tabletop. “Careful,” he murmured, retrieving his hands and leaning back enough to offer him a smile. “There’s a lot of broken glass, obviously. Stay here, I’ll get a broom or something.”

Komaeda gave him a smile that spoke of indulgence and released his hold on him to lean back on the tabletop, “Take your time. I haven’t got anywhere to be.”

Hajime snorted and snagged the flashlight he’d dropped on the countertop before making his way gingerly around the counter, past the jukebox and into the back hall, pausing only briefly to pick a couple of large chunks of glass out of his foot.

The hall was long and dark and strangely quiet like the jukebox was turned at a funny angle so the majority of the sound was lost the second he stepped away from it. He could still hear the singer though, crooning through the darkness. It sounded so different without the music, without Komaeda’s voice chasing it with softly spoken lies, that he couldn’t tell if it was the same song or even the same singer.

“ _…he would always laugh and say, remember when we used to play… bang bang… I shot you down… bang bang… you hit the ground…_ ”

There were three doors at the end of the short hallway

All three doors were unmarked with chrome handles, one on each wall, none of them labeled.

He stared at them, the way the handles glinted dully in the lantern light, a chill creeping up his spine as the music continued to play and the woman continued to sing. He bit his lip wondering if he should just turn the hell around and head back the way he’d come. Maybe they should leave, head somewhere else. Not to the ruins of Hope’s Peak, obviously, _hell no_ , but maybe… hadn’t there been a library or something?

“Okay?” The word was soft and close and warm breath puffed against his ear.

“Dammit!” Hajime yelped, leaping away from Komaeda, the flashlight flying from his hand and clattering down the hall where it slammed into the far wall and went dark. Komaeda’s laughter echoed in the hall and he turned around to glare at him in the dim light cast by the jukebox. “ _Komaeda_ , you’re such an _ass_!”

“Ah, Hinata, did I scare you?” He replied, his voice light and airy with giggles like the carbonation in soda floating beneath the surface of his words.

“You know damn well you did.”

“I did, didn’t I? That’s funny. It’s so very dark back here. Like another world, if it were totally dark it would be like we didn’t exist at all. No you, no me, just the black.” His back hit the wall and he hadn’t even realized he was moving, letting Komaeda crowd and steer him until it did. There was another soft thump and he found himself staring down at the top of Komaeda’s head, just a blur of pale hair in the barely lit darkness.

“Hey, what are you…?” He asked, even though the answer was perfectly obvious as Komaeda’s fingers made quick work of the belt and fastenings of his borrowed pants.

“You’re so slow, Hinata,” Komaeda replied, as loud, wet slurping sounds filled the hall and Hajime banged his head back against the wall, his fingers instantly tangling in Komaeda’s hair.

It took almost no time at all before his legs were trembling so badly it was difficult to keep standing and he was yanking on Komaeda’s hair trying to draw him back and away, “I’m gonna… Komaeda… I’m really... uh... _close_... I'm… _Komaeda_.”

If his warning was heard, it went ignored and unheeded and he choked on a groan, bending and cradling Komaeda’s head against his body as he came, stuttering out his name with Komaeda’s nails sharp points of pain at his waist. A man’s voice echoed down the hall, but the words sounded grabbled and he couldn’t really make them out over the sound of his own heavy panting breath and the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears as Komaeda drew away. He let him go, leaning back against the wall before sliding down to slump on the floor, his legs sprawled and bent on either side of Komaeda’s kneeling form. The hall just wasn’t quite wide enough for him to straighten his legs.

“That wasn’t anything like I thought it would be,” Komaeda commented smiling at him and reaching out to run his fingers down his cheeks. “I liked the way you said my name.”

“I liked the way you did that, so I guess we’re even,” Hajime replied, returning the smile with one of his own. “I wasn’t expecting that at all. I was kind of expecting coming down this hall to turn into a total horror show.”

Komaeda shrugged, “I told you, I have bad impulse control.”

“Yeah, you did tell me that,” he agreed, straightening his borrowed briefs and re-fastening his trousers and belt.

“Hm, I almost expected you to disappear the second you came,” Komaeda commented with feigned nonchalance. “I suppose I’m not particularly disappointed that you didn’t.”

Hajime sighed, “It’s weird, right? I don’t know if I’m glad I didn’t or worried.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nevermind, it’s nothing,” Hajime murmured, remembering his decision to stop poking the proverbial badger.

“ _Don’t try to make me something I’m not. This nonsense of yours has got to stop right now. C’mon, c’mon baby, take me for what I am…_ ”

“What’s this one?” He asked in spite of himself, eager for a change in subject.

“Mm? I don’t remember it was… hm, I had a therapist after the crash, she liked… he… the first time I… no, that wasn’t…. I was… no, that’s not… I wasn’t…” Komaeda frowned, pushing himself to his feet and pacing down the hall into the dark muttering, mostly to himself it seemed. Hajime watched him for a long moment before trying to catch his hand on the second pass.

Komaeda shook off his grip, his movements jerky and brisk, and his bare feet nearly silent as he disappeared down the dark hall and came back almost as quickly, a hand rubbing furiously at his forehead, smearing fresh blood across his face. “Maybe. Maybe I was… he was… I spilled the coffee and, no, I… stuffed monkey? No, that’s stupid. Maybe on the plane? They didn’t usually take me on vacation with them. I-I was afraid of flying, but it didn’t matter, I’m still… maybe… _maybe_ … I was… I’m… I’m…”

On his third turn down the hall, he didn’t come back.

Hajime could still hear him mumbling to himself in the darkness though it sounded more distant than it had before. He couldn’t quite make out the words anymore, but the tone was getting more and more frantic. He cursed and stumbled to his feet, not really surprised that his legs were still unsteady, more like jelly filled stockings than legs at all really.

“Komaeda?” He called and the mumbling cut off abruptly leaving only a hungry silence in that long dark hall which seemed suddenly longer and more forbidding than it had been moments before. He felt around in his pocket for the box of matches he’d found earlier and slipped one free, striking it against the side of the box.

It wasn’t a huge help, but he could tell that the hall was suddenly much longer than it had been; so long that he couldn’t see the end and where there had only been three doors before there were now dozens. Grey doors with tiny windows that could be pushed open, probably, since they didn’t seem to have handles. It actually looked a little bit like a hospital hallway actually. The fire burned his fingers and he cursed, dropping the match to the floor, stomping on it automatically and then cursing again as it burned the sole of his foot as it was snuffed out. “Komaeda? Are you there? Please stop messing around and just answer me.”

Familiar laughter echoed down the corridor, the same, but different too. “If you want him so badly, come and get him.”

Panic seized at his heart, clawing at it was icy fingers, “Komaeda?”

“Come find me and see for yourself, if it matters so much to you.”

And he knew he was going to regret it, but just like on the road and the beach, just like always, he’d never been able to just leave Komaeda alone. He took a deep breath, pushed his anxiety down as best he could and edged forward down the hall, further and further into the darkness, the box of matches clutched tight in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as always, thanks for the kudos and the comments. They're super awesome and much appreciated. 
> 
> **That Jukebox:** So, I dig a good soundtrack because I tend to listen to very specific playlists when I'm working on different stories. And I think, in general, a lot of memories and ideas are tied to music whether it's just the music that was playing on the radio when you got a particular piece of news or a song that makes you think of a certain event. That sometimes, just sometimes, you can hear a song on the radio or over the speakers in a store and you'll get a squirrelly feeling in your stomach or it'll just needle at you, make you nervous or irritable, or maybe just lift your mood for no particularly obvious reason and even if you really notice and spend some time thinking about it you might not be able to come up with a definite reason why. I think a lot of things are like that, that that sort of sense memory becomes so knotted in with certain things and feelings and sensations that you can't help associating them even when you can't remember specifically why. Komaeda's mind, as I hope is at this point is pretty obvious from his POV scenes, is a wicked weird mess, it's heavily damaged and corrupted by a combination of his illness, what was done to them to make them susceptible to the sort of therapeutic approach Naegi and the others initiated and that's all completely aside from the damage done by his in-simulation 'death'. That said, for the curious, all the jukebox songs are ones he knows or is attached to in some way the songs that feature in this chapter are _Cry Me a River_ by Ella Fitzgerald, _Bang, Bang_ by Nancy Sinatra and _Take Me For What I Am_ by Henrey Ford. So, that's how that is.
> 
> Also, I don't think Komaeda just happened upon his trunk full of issues during his years at Hope's Peak. I think all the Despair kids, just like all the kids in the original game, had all sorts of issues before they ever showed up there which is what made them so susceptible to Junko/Monokuma's manipulations. So, Komaeda's parents weren't nice people, but his father happened to have a passion for music. And sometimes even terrible parents like to share the things they love so as it happens he owned and played a number of records for Nagito in the years before the crash and the music stuck with him. That said, clearly not all the memories associated with that music are pleasant ones. :)
> 
>  **Glowsticks:** Fell out of Hinata's pocket when he jumped the counter.
> 
>  **Hinata's Pants:** I'm not sure if I remembered to specify in chapter, but Hinata is indeed totally wearing a pair of Komaeda's pants, but his own belt. So, yes, he is literally _in_ Komaeda's pants during the back half of this chapter. Yes, I absolutely make my own fun.


	7. Empty Halls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which reality is a tricky prospect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, mind the warnings. No, _seriously_ , mind the warnings, they've changed a bit and this is a Komaeda chapter.

_“Strange as it may seem, I still hope for the best, even though the best, like an interesting piece of mail, so rarely arrives, and even when it does it can be lost so easily.”_  
― Lemony Snicket, The Beatrice Letters

 

 **DAY THREE**  
-continued-  
+++  
 

He was lost.

Lost and alone in the dark and his body ached in a way it hadn’t in…

Days? Years? He wasn’t sure.

He wasn’t sure about anything anymore. 

His arm was numb from the tips of his fingers to halfway up his forearm, he couldn’t feel anything at all but a cold surety that there was something _wrong_ with it. 

It felt like he’d been lost in the dark for centuries and mere moments. 

His head hurt and he felt dizzy, off-balance.

But he was also painfully turned on, as if he had just left a lover’s bed unfulfilled. 

_It wasn’t unusual, exactly. He’d had plenty of sex over the years since he had…_

What? 

That wasn’t right.

He’d never… 

He had… he’d been somewhere… he was…

Was...

Who was he again? 

He giggled, weaving, lurching drunkenly forward and falling into empty space. He landed hard on a cold floor, catching himself on hands and knees, painful, before climbing unsteadily back to his feet and continuing to shuffle ever onwards.

Wasn’t sure what he was doing, where he meant to go exactly.

It seemed as if he’d been in the middle of doing something important.

Doing someone important.

Funny.

 _Right._

_The lover whose taste still lingered on his tongue, a taste that was sharp and bitter and new, a memory of warm smooth skin._

_He must have been special. Important. Something. Beautiful, maybe. He rarely gave head. He didn’t like people looking at him while... he didn’t like it. Didn’t like strangers tugging at his hair or touching his face. He usually just let them fuck him instead. It was easier. No one cared if he was crying if they couldn’t see it. No one cared if he was laughing if he smothered that laughter in a pillow or choked it out as he bit down on his own arm or hers._

_Strangers didn’t care about the things they couldn’t see. Why would they? That’s what he liked about strangers who only saw his pale hair and delicate features. Who lied and said they liked his laugh. Who lapped up his honeyed words and sharp commands. They didn’t worry too much about whether they were hurting him or whether he came at all, whether it even turned him on, whether he insulted them as they worked or grew bored with looking at them before they were done. And if they did care, all they usually did was leave, but that didn't happen often. He was picky about his choices. He always chose pretty, desperate, fragile, lonely strangers from quiet, empty weeknight bars. The sort who took instruction well, grateful enough for the attention not to make demands, not to ask too many questions, satisfied enough with just having a warm hole to stick it in even if he insisted that he only bared what skin he absolutely had to to get it done, that they take him behind, that they never touch him beneath his shirt. That they never attempt to hold his hand or kiss him. He had no use for those little intimacies from ordinary little people who were meant to be disposable._

_He didn’t want strangers to look at him. Didn't like the feel of eyes judging him. Didn't want them to feel his cold clammy skin or the press of his ribs against it, to be able to tell that his body was riddled with disease and wasting away to nothing because he'd been too nauseous to eat a proper meal in days, weeks. He wore bulky clothes to hide it usually and because he was almost always cold now, his circulation poor. But that was another good thing about strangers. Strangers didn’t care about his wellbeing. Well, no one did, really. He wasn’t the sort of person who was worth caring about, but that went double for strangers. All they ever cared about was that he knew what to say and how to smile to lure them into the dark and get them to fuck him until their bodies gave out. It was just… easier that way._

_Easier to break them after, to crush fragile egos and feelings in the aftermath, to spread despair like a virus and watch with fascination as they shriveled up like dying spiders. Shattered beneath the barest pressure, tears choking them as he tore them down brick by brick. They’d never thank him, but he believed resolutely that hope would find them in the aftermath, that their hope for the future would be greater because of those brief transitory moments of despair. They’d never return to those seedy, quiet, pathetic bars looking for company, for young men like him who would salve their wounds, shore up their self-worth for minutes or hours, a bitter fix. Some would find their hope in death, that was probably true, but others would weather the storm and find themselves. Realize they were so much better than some skinny, half-dead bastard who told them they were worth less than nothing, who made them feel such terrible things. They’d be happier. They’d find a hope that would light up their dark worlds and give them the strength to go on, to value themselves, to be better men. Hope was hope. It didn’t much matter to him how it manifested. Just that it did. Everyone hoped for different things, after all, in different ways._

_And, if he were lucky it wouldn’t be difficult to coax them to him before they left, to get them on their knees to wrap lips or hands around him until he came, silent and relieved, but never happy._

_He was usually lucky._

_Well, no, he was_ always _lucky, he supposed, just… sometimes the luck was bad. But that was okay too, because even if they hurt him or left him aching and alone it meant that the next time would be much better than usual to make up for it._

_Probably._

_Maybe._

_So, that was fine too._

_Getting off wasn’t really the point after all, just a perk and he wasn’t terribly particular about when he got off so long as he did and it wasn’t as if he could take care of it himself. He had sacrificed one hand to keep a token, a reminder, a piece of her with him, and the other…._

_Well._

_Repetitive motion had become a challenge, one that was rarely worth the cost. His body was breaking down a piece at a time, after all. More and more quickly it seemed with each passing day._

_No surprises there._

_Some days were good._

_Some were bad._

_Just like his luck._

_Of course, such hobbies had become impossible after Towa City. He had simply been too busy. Places to be and things to do and sculpting that miserable, wretched little girl… grooming her to be all he had promised was so time consuming._

_Exhausting too since he’d had to stop sleeping altogether after the first time she tried to kill him in a fit of despair. A ridiculous affectation, but if his luck were bad it was one that would end him just the same. He didn't mind the idea of dying. Not really. Never had. But it would be too hopeless to die before he had even gotten to the level of a cheap cardboard cutout imitation. That wouldn't be the sort of thing that could really cause despair in any truly meaningful way. No great beautiful hope would come from that kind of thing._

_It was just as well. He’d never slept all that well anyway, his muscles ached all the time and his dreams had long ago become mostly nightmares._

His head hurt. 

Sometimes it seemed like he wasn’t himself at all.

Like there was a world outside this one, a miserable world where he’d been something else entirely and there had been no Hinata. Where despair had become the only joke he was capable of laughing at. 

There was a song that lingered in his head. A song he’d known a long time ago and he found himself humming it as he stumbled through the dark. His legs were stiff, brittle, like matchsticks.

He was probably off-key. 

Music was not his talent.

Everything ached. 

His skin felt stretched thin, his muscles ached. Even his bones were sore as a rotting tooth, anguish pulsing through them every few steps.

Why was he still alive? 

_Shouldn’t he be dead by now?_

Wasn’t he? It seemed like… like there was something…. 

Did he want to be? He wasn’t sure. The pain was constant, but he… there was something he wanted to see, wasn’t there?

 _Something…._  

That taste was the strangest thing.

He licked his lips. They were… rough, chapped and they tasted… tasted… 

_He had looked down at him. At that beautiful, dark-haired boy, who seemed not to care that he himself was soaked to the skin, his clothes clinging and dripping as he ignored his own situation in favor of pressing a towel gently, thoroughly against Nagito's damp, bare skin._

_His name was Hinata._

_He knelt before him, sliding that towel down his legs, his hair a disheveled mess of points and spikes. Hinata was… quiet, contemplative, as he worked, but sometimes he would linger, absently, over some scar or other, trace it with his fingertips as if he were wondering where it came from or memorizing the placement, the feel. He didn’t like when people looked at him like that, lingered. But it was… okay when it was Hinata. He didn’t mind the way Hinata looked at him, the way Hinata touched him like he was something of value, something precious._

_And he hated it too, hated him, because he made him want things, impossible things._

_Terrible things._

_Hopeless things._ _  
_

_It made him wish he hadn’t…._

_That he was…_  

That’s right.

Hinata Hajime. 

_Kamukura Izuru._

_He’d met him on a ship at sea. His hair was long and dark, his eyes burning like hot coals in the shadows of their tiny cabin. His suit was neat, impeccable, clean and dark._

_It made him feel small and dirty and terribly underdressed._

No, that wasn’t… that wasn’t right. 

He was Hinata Hajime.

He’d met him on a beach. He’d been sleeping.

They’d been together on an island with many others, but the others had never mattered quite as much to him. 

He’d met him again in the dark.

In a quiet cottage lousy with tacky figurines. 

On a bridge.

In the rain, again and again. 

They’d been together just now in a diner, in a dimly lit hall and he’d…

He'd....

Oh.

 _That's_ where that taste came from.

What a strange thing to forget.

Hinata had disappeared down the diner hallway. 

That was why he’d gone after him in the first place, wasn’t it?

He’d been sitting on that table watching in silence as Hinata disappeared down the hall and it had felt like he couldn’t breathe, like Hinata had stolen all the oxygen from the room and taken it with him. That he would end up lying on the floor gaping like a fish, drowning in the air because he couldn’t process it properly, because it wasn’t the sort he needed.

_Here lies Komaeda Nagito. He died as he lived: worthless and alone._

He’d felt really strange, completely out of sorts, since the beach house. Since Hinata had leaned in close to him and said all those words. Those beautiful, terrible words had made him feel like he was falling, that had slid inside him like a knife slipped between his ribs. If felt as if they’d been at work on him ever since, changing him, prying him open an inch at a time, making things worse and better all at once.

Special.

 _Special_ , he’d said. He was… _special_ to him.

It shouldn’t have _mattered_.

Nothing he said should have mattered. He wasn’t real, he wasn’t _anything_ at _all_ and he shouldn’t want him or his company. It should have been a simple matter to say that after the beach, after the bridge, but ever since they’d fallen together he’d felt as if he were spiraling further out of control. As if with every moment he spent kissing him, speaking with him, touching him, being touched by him he was taking another step closer to the edge of an abyss from which he’d never escape. It should have been nothing to tell him he didn’t want him, to tell him to go away, to tell him to leave, to just leave him alone. 

But he hadn’t been able to force those words past his lips.

Instead he’d said yes to him and they had left the beach house together and it had felt like surrender.

Everything since had been so surreal: the diner, the lights, the music, the way Hinata kept trying to… protect him, even from himself. He… it made him feel so odd, light and soft and fragile, in a way he hadn’t been in years and he _hated_ it, but he didn’t… he wasn’t ready to lose that feeling just yet.

He’d practically flung himself from the table in his hurry to scramble after him when he’d vanished from sight, the taste of panic thick and cloying in his mouth. He’d heard the crunch of glass under foot, more brittle then it should have been, felt the pain in his feet and he hadn’t cared about that. He just needed to stop him before he….

He had half-expected to turn into that hall and find it empty, find that Hinata had stopped existing the moment he was out of sight, but… no. He’d been there, just standing there, staring down the hall as if puzzled, frozen or broken. 

He was beautiful.

Whatever else he was, he was that.

He had scratches on his back, scabby little lines over his shoulders and across his shoulder blades, over his spine. He wondered vaguely if he was the one who’d put them there, he thought so, hoped so. It appealed to him, the idea of leaving traces of permanence on a body he knew was transient. He wanted to lick those scratches, worry at them till they bled again and again until he was certain they would leave scars behind. 

He slipped up behind him and spoke softly, giggling at his reaction, at the way he jumped and spun and freaked out, sending his flashlight skittering down the hall with a startled yelp. “Ah, Hinata, did I scare you?”

“You know damn well you did.”

And he had and it had been… relief and joy had gone to war with hate in his chest looking at Hinata’s face, flush with embarrassment in the dark, his flashlight lost and broken, his feet still bleeding.

He looked so painfully ordinary.

Not like a delusion at all, not perfect at all, just an ordinary, normal, boring, talentless boy who was a little afraid of the dark. 

It was cruel.

This Hinata was cruel for looking so… _real_.

He’d been glad when he’d seen him, relieved that he was still there. His imperfect, beautiful, ordinary, boring nobody, but… he knew it wouldn’t last. That at any moment, between one breath and the next, Hinata could just poof out of existence and he would be left alone again here in the dark. 

It was like a curse.

His luck always gave him the things he thought he needed, but in the end… it always stole the things he wanted. 

Or maybe it was the other way around.

It was something like that, probably. 

Maybe.

He couldn’t quite remember, but the point was…

The point…

_Nuts._

He stumbled, tripping over some unseen obstacle or his own feet and fell. He hit hard, moaned at the impact, the feel of cold tile burning his palm as he caught himself. He reared back immediately, but the burn followed him, fire ignited beneath his skin, smoldering and he clutched his seared hand to his chest with a sob.

Why…? 

_Hm. This hurts?_

_The doctor prodded his cheek, with a gentle finger and he flinched away from the touch._

_It’s another symptom of your condition I’m afraid. Your skin may become increasingly sensitive as the disease progresses._  

No, no, no. It wasn’t that bad. It hadn’t ever been that bad… had it?

Had it?

Why did everything smell like burning peanuts? Plastic? 

He didn’t…

What?

 _No. I don’t want to think about that. Don’t think about that._

_Look away._

What had he been…

_Lucky._

Right, that’s what… 

He was lucky.

So lucky. 

He struggled back to his feet again, swaying drunkenly as the fire in his hand banked and eased.

He just… had to be careful. 

_Careful._

His bare feet ached, but they didn’t burn. 

He’d been lucky to have Hinata there with him. He was a distraction from the monotony of that empty world. When he was with him it was easy to forget that he wasn’t real. He was just so…

Revoltingly _Hinata_. 

Was it strange that he should be able to remember him so vividly in some ways and in other ways, smaller ways… he seemed every inch the stranger, the bad copy. He supposed it made sense that he should like this version, his version, better than the original. That his sick, demented, hateful mind had been the one who made Hinata this way, that he’d made him, but he wouldn’t let himself keep him.

Those were the only constants, the only certainties of this place, that he could never truly die, never really rest and that when he despaired, when he was at his most desperate, Hinata would come and offer him hope and then he would _leave_ him and cause the cycle to begin anew.

Well.

He'd leave him or become that other one. 

Either way it was still _leaving_.

He _despised_ him. 

His strange words and the way he touched him and his unwanted concern and the way their fingers had fit together like interlocking pieces of a complicated puzzle neither could solve alone.

_He’d been fine before, mostly fine, pretty much mostly fine; he’d had despair and he’d had hope and someone to love and despise and that had been enough. Enough to see him through until his luck finally ran out, if it ever did._

What?

No, that wasn’t… what? 

Despair?

Why did that…? 

Hope, yes, but despair? He’d been… he’d been in Ultimate Despair, hadn’t he? He was… he was… he was…

He felt sick. 

It didn’t matter.

 _Loneliness wasn’t so bad when you didn’t know what you were missing._  

He should have never woken him up on that beach.

He should have steered clear of him because Hinata… Hinata had been his doom from the very beginning. And, even now, even when he was only imaginary he would be the death of him one way or another. If it had just been death he could have been fine with that. He wasn’t afraid of dying, not really. He even kind of liked the idea of Hinata being the one to kill him. But this… this wasn’t that. Instead of killing him he had made him _want_ him, however unintentionally, and that had been cruel, because this Hinata had been _right_ : he didn’t really find him boring, he never really had. He was confusing and gentle and terrible and weird and awkward and… he _hated_ it. 

Hated _him_.

But he wasn’t ever bored when he was with him. 

Still, he wasn’t _real_ and when he left this time… he was pretty sure he’d break, shatter into pieces, and he would never be able to find them all again. And there was no doubt that he would leave, it was only a matter of when.

“I did, didn’t I? That’s funny. It’s so very dark back here. Like another world, if it were totally dark it would be like we didn’t exist at all. No you, no me, just the black.”

And that would have been better.

If he didn’t exist- if they didn’t exist- then he couldn’t leave. 

But if they couldn’t cease to exist, than maybe it was better to just get it over with. Stop delaying the inevitable. Better that it happen sooner than later. If he was going to destroy himself, didn’t it make more sense that he should choose the time and place and manner of the demise of the last shreds of what passed for his sanity?

So, he pressed him against the wall, dropped to his knees, because this, this was why he was still here, wasn’t it? Why else? He’d vanished when he’d come last time, hadn’t he?

“Hey, what are you…?”

It wasn’t lost on him that he was unfastening his own belt, peeling open his own pants to find Hinata’s cock. It made him faster, more sure than he would have been otherwise. It didn’t… it didn’t really look much like his own except that they were both cocks. It was darker, a little wider maybe, the head hidden by foreskin which he'd heard about but never seen. It was weird, but interesting too and he thought the head, hidden as it was, was still more pronounced than his own… maybe. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t like to look at himself, he never really had. Too pale, too skinny, too sickly, scraggly hair, his eyes sunken and shadowed and shaded by too many late nights and early mornings.

No, Hinata was different. Different, but… good different, maybe, kind of pretty like the rest of him. It wasn’t a bad way to go, all things considered.

“You’re so slow, Hinata,” he breathed, licking his lips, suddenly nervous, giant moths gnawing away at the butterflies in his stomach. He needed to do this, wanted to too, a little bit even though it felt like courting disaster, but mostly… mostly he just wanted him to _go_.

He just wanted it to be _done_.

He was tired of waiting for the other shoe to fall on his worthless head.

He took a deep breath and opened his mouth wide as he slid his lips over Hinata’s cock and the sound was _obscene_. It was really kind of embarrassing and he thought there was too much spit or something because he didn’t remember it sounding or feeling so sloppy and wet when Hinata had done the same to him.

But Hinata made a strange choking sound, like someone had punched him and there was a heavy thunk above him before fingers caught in his hair, pulling tight, reeling him in so that his nose brushed against springy dark hair. It tickled a little and he found that he was smiling in spite of himself. He must have done something right. Probably.

Then Hinata’s fingers had loosened a little, freeing him to move and he slid back before pushing up that length again. Hinata smelled good, really good, warm and sweaty and maybe a little bit like rainwater and burnt bread, which was strange, but still kind of nice. It had probably been some lingering scent from the diner. It had still been a little embarrassing, but with Hinata’s fingers twisting in his hair and the soft little noises he was trying not to make, he hadn’t felt nearly as silly as he had at first.

He had definitely liked the way Hinata’s fingers felt in his hair, just tight enough to hurt, shiny little pinpricks of pain that made him want to suck harder, to force himself to take him deeper even though he just kind of choked and gagged when he did.

Suddenly Hinata’s annoyance with him about what they’d done in the cottage made a lot more sense. It would probably hurt or at least be really uncomfortable if Hinata just shoved inside like he’d done with him. Though he might enjoy something like that, he could understand why Hinata wouldn’t.

He looked up at him and almost choked again.

Hinata’s eyes had been closed and his head had fallen forward, chin resting against his chest, expression strained and teeth white where they bit down on his bottom lip. He looked so….

He’d squeezed his own eyes shut, tried to concentrate on what he was doing, but his pants were uncomfortably tight and he had squirmed a little, whimpering. He hadn’t dare reach down to ease the ache, because if he did he probably wouldn’t stop until he was done and so he… he just wouldn’t touch it.

He wouldn’t.

It wasn’t like he needed to or anything.

He _didn’t_.

This wasn’t about him… well, it _was_ , but it wasn’t.

Either way, he wasn’t interested in getting off again so soon after the beach. If he thought about it, really thought about it, he was pretty sure that he’d maybe still be able to feel Hinata’s hand on him and he didn’t want to lose that just yet. It didn’t even really matter if it had been real or not, it felt like it had been Hinata, his lying brain wanted him to believe it had been after all, so that was enough… that would have to be enough.

So, he had ignored it, ignored the desire to ease that tension pounding away in the back of his brain, and had just kept working on getting Hinata off.

Which he had apparently been really bad at because it had taken _forever_.

He had probably been terrible at giving head; he was terrible at a lot of things after all. Totally worthless, useless, awful and he really hadn’t had the first idea about what he had been doing. He’d just wanted to taste him which was probably a terrible reason to attempt your first blowjob on your first imaginary sex partner.

He was so fucked up.

But he probably should have done it with his hand instead. It would have been faster and at least he would kind of, sort of, have had experience with _that_ , even if that had only ever been with his own….

_He hadn’t wanted to touch it, but she had smiled and closed the door and told him…_

_It felt weird._

_Gross._

_Dirty._

What?

No, that hadn’t….

Nothing like that had ever happened, had it?

He… probably just saw it on television. Probably. Maybe.

He’d watched a lot of television in the hospital.

It didn’t matter.

How different could it be, really? Jerking off was jerking off whether he was doing it to himself or someone else, probably. He could have switched it up. Hinata probably wouldn’t have cared.

The blowjob thing had been a stupid idea really.

He wasn’t sure if he’d even been doing it right, if it had actually felt good or if it was awful and Hinata had just suffered through his incompetence. It had mostly just seemed… kind of awkward, but he supposed he must have been doing something right since he couldn’t quite manage the entire length in his mouth after a while without gagging and he thought Hinata was making the right sounds.

He’d seen enough porn that he knew he was getting the position right at least. He’d found a whole box of the stuff under his parents’ bed after…

He’d shoved it back under the bed where he’d found and left it alone. It had made him feel weird to know it was there, but he hadn’t been the house for too long after that. There’d been the kidnapping and then the hospital and when he’d gotten out he’d been sixteen and he’d gone back there one last time. In retrospect, he wasn’t certain why he’d even bothered, why he hadn’t had the house sold years before.

There had been nothing there he wanted.

The box had been covered and sticky with dust when he’d remembered it and pulled it back out after he’d been discharged from the hospital the last time years later. He’d sat on the expensive rug in his parents’ room late into the night, watching those old, faded films on the video player. Watched men and women dressed in stupid outfits, saying ridiculous things to each other before- and sometimes while- they got each other off. He’d jerked off again and again and marveled at how he felt nothing at all. Not amused, not happy, not sad or even mad. He’d just felt sort of… empty. He’d come again and again as the night wore on, but there was only sort of a strange feeling of tired satisfaction each time as if he’d completed a chore or a task that needed doing rather than an act that was supposed to bring pleasure.

The people on the screen of his parents’ clunky old television had looked as though they were having a much better time. Even the ones who were only helping themselves looked they were enjoying it at least. He hadn’t really gotten it. He thought maybe he remembered having found that sort pleasure when he was younger, when he used to wake up in his hospital bed, damp and ashamed and he’d used a towel to clean up with frantic, panicked motions. Afraid that one of the nurses would come in and know he’d been having dirty thoughts, dirty dreams. That he was…

Dirty. Filthy. Unclean.  

He’d touched himself a few times while he was in the hospital, late at night or in the shower when he was alone, but the good feelings hadn’t ever lasted very long and the clean up had always made him feel like he’d done something wrong. He’d seen the disgusted look one of the nurses had thrown him one time when she’d come in on him late at night to check on him and caught him in the act.

He cried for a long time after she left.

Or at least he thought he had.

He hadn’t done it again.

Not for a long time.

Not until he’d started to go wrong, to spoil like milk left out of the fridge too long. Until he started not to care so much about things, people. When feelings had begun to stop mattering altogether, regardless of whether they were his or those of others. The world had seemed to become so much… simpler. Duller too. He’d known there was something wrong with him, beyond the illness that was in remission, but he hadn’t told anyone. He’d believed in his own luck.

That was all he believed in.

He’d been lucky that nothing had come up on his scans. They probably would have made him stay. There would have been more tests to run, more needles to prick his skin, more of those pills that made him feel sick and numb or nervous. Pills that made everything taste like chalk or made him not want to even look at food, food they’d make him eat anyway whether he wanted it or not.

He didn’t _want_ any of that, didn’t need it.

So, his luck kept his scans clear, his disease in remission. Of course, his luck had also made him… worse. He ached, he always ached, and he couldn’t usually eat much and the emotions… those came and went on strange tides.

Bad luck and good.

Good luck and bad.

He could have told his therapists or his doctors about it. About how wrong he felt sometimes, but he was so _tired_ of being in the hospital. It was boring there and the nurses all hated him though he didn’t blame them. He was just an awful patient. He hadn’t meant to be, not really, but sometimes he couldn’t remember why he wasn’t supposed to say the things he was thinking or do the things he wanted to do. He hated the smell and the food and the sheets that felt too rough on his skin. He could handle things on his own. And the things he couldn’t he had enough money to throw at them until they stopped bothering him and that was good enough.

So what if there was no one around to care if he cared about things, if he felt okay, if he threw up for two days straight or if everything ached or if sometimes he only wanted to drink coffee and if sometimes he just needed… things. He hadn’t needed someone like that. Someone to care. All he had needed was his luck and the belief- the hope- that things were going to be better at Hope’s Peak.

He’d been really lucky to be accepted and he wanted to cling to that hope that there would be a better life to be found there. That everything would be different, that _he_ would be different there. That he’d be able to….

He’d fallen asleep leaning against the foot of their bed with one of those tapes still playing in the background, the slap of skin against skin and loud, sleazy moans following him into his dreams. The next morning he’d woken up sticky and sore and sick. Everything was gross and he’d vomited at some point during the night so the room smelled rank and awful. He hadn’t eaten anything in a few days so there wasn't much to it. He probably could have just cleaned it up, the vomit, the mess, but what was the point? It wasn’t as if he ever intended to come back there again.

He hated that house.

He tossed the videos in the burn pile out back along with the expensive rug he’d ruined. It had been exhausting hauling it down to the window and throwing it outside, hauling it across the yard, but he wanted it _gone_. He’d made a pretty good start on the pile the day before with all those stiff, lame family portraits and all those old clothes that still smelled like his... like _them_. By the time he was done pulling and hauling and screaming and tossing things at the pile it was almost taller than he was. The challenge in the end had been keeping it burning, since a lot of the things in the pile weren’t all that flammable, but he’d eventually discovered that just about anything would burn if you took the time to drench it with enough gasoline.

The stench of charring, melting plastic hadn’t made him feel any less sick and it had lingered in the air for days, but at least it had all been gone, reduced to a gooey pile of toxic black junk. It had all finally been gone and there was something satisfying in that.

But since he’d watched all those videos before he’d burned them, he was pretty confident that he at least knew how a blowjob was _supposed_ to look and he knew he’d done a passable imitation of that. He hadn’t using his hand around the base, but he thought that part probably wasn’t very important. Wasn’t the point of a blowjob to be in someone’s mouth, after all? Of course, he was pretty sure he was messing up the suction thing, because ever time he tried that, he couldn’t really move his head very well and so maybe the sucking part was a kind of misnomer or something. Mostly it just felt weird and he hadn’t really been able to tell if Hinata had been enjoying it or if maybe he had just been taking pity on him or if maybe any warm, wet place would do in the end and it didn’t much matter what it was or who was doing it.

He almost wished Hinata _would_ just shove into him like he’d done to him, if he’d just shoved in and been done with it he wouldn’t have had to worry about it, but he hadn’t.

Of _course_ , he hadn’t.

Hinata was too good for that, too kind. Sometimes he really, really, really hated him. But he liked the way he tasted too, when he started leaking a little. He liked the soft whimpering noises he made, as if he were too excited to breathe properly.

He had dragged his mouth along the length of him, choking a little when he went too deep, trying to remember and imitate the way Hinata’s tongue had flickered against him. He’d liked that a lot. And he just… he just kind of liked the way he felt against his tongue, kind of smooth and a little rough maybe here and there. He’d wanted to commit every bump and ridge to memory, but he knew it was probably useless and, really, he was trying to get him off, not draw a mental map of his cock. Still, he’d swept his tongue around the head, flicked it back over the ridge of his foreskin, feeling out every vein and fold as he went, unable to resist the urge. It was messy, really messy and he knew he had to look kind of weird and grotesque, but the darkness of the hallway and Hinata’s whimpers had kept him going when he wanted to pull back, to ask, to be sure that he was doing it right, to make sure that he didn’t look stupid, to find out if Hinata still wanted him at all when he was obviously the absolute _worst_. To maybe wipe the drool off his chin, because he knew _that_ really wasn’t sexy at _all_.

It seemed like he had been at it for a really long time and his tongue and jaw had ached fiercely. He hadn’t wanted to stop, not really. Of course, sometimes he hadn’t particularly wished to continue either. Especially when those softer emotions would slip away, dirty bathwater spiraling away down a filthy drain, and he would be left wondering why he was bothering with this, but then he’d remember that it was at least partly in the service of getting rid of Hinata sooner rather than later, a practical concern, and he’d continue.

And sometimes, most times, Hinata’s fingers were gentle in his hair, but sometimes….

Sometimes they _hurt_ and there were words, like static, that made his stomach flop and seize, his hips jerk, his cock pulse and twitch and leak. It was so like the cruel words and harsh grip from the bridge that in those moments, brief and fleeting as they had been, it had been like a shadow had passed in front of the sun. As if Hinata were someone else completely and he’d felt like maybe he had been someone else too.

Someone who knew what he was doing. Someone who turned awkward enthusiasm into artful intention, who drew back and raised his gaze and offered sly, cutting remarks that he could feel, but he couldn’t quite hear.

It felt like he had been dreaming a stranger’s dreams as he imagined himself as older, wiser, too far gone to care.

He’d felt himself smile and laugh, amused by everything and nothing as he went back to work, scrapped his teeth, harsh and just skirting the line between pleasure and pain, over the length of the flesh in his mouth.

He dreamed he was someone in love with the despair Hinata’s-

 _ _Kamukura_ ’s-_ words caused because of what hope might blossom from them. And in that dream his left hand had felt strangely numb.

And then those moments would pass, the sun would emerge, and they were themselves again and he would wonder if maybe he’d just imagined it as he had imagined so many other things.

Delusions within delusions.

And if he wasn’t….

Hinata had made a soft needy, frustrated whine, greedy fingers curling and clutching in his hair, canting his hips. It felt like he was begging for it and it brought him back to himself. It made him moan around him, emotion flooding back in like a tide as he squeezed his eyes shut tight and slid his hands back, digging his fingernails into Hinata’s hips, eager to leave marks on this boy he hated and adored.

It had been easy enough after that to lose himself again, this time to the rhythm, pressing forward and easing back, imitating the subtle suction he’d managed in that fractured dream of moments before. Soft sounds echoed around him, his own and Hinata’s, desire and need pulsing through him like a heartbeat. Soon enough Hinata was talking to him, warning him and he hadn’t cared or he had cared too much, maybe. He pulled back and thrust forward, teeth scrapping lightly across the shaft in his eagerness and he moaned as Hinata’s fingers pulled at his hair, his voice frantic protest. And he’d felt just as frantic, just as panicked as Hinata sounded because, in the end, he hadn’t wanted to let him go.

He wanted him to stay.

He had wanted to beg, to delay, to bargain, to plead and since he couldn’t do any of those things, he had at least wanted to taste him, feel him inside him all the way to the end. He heard his name, sudden and sweet, as liquid, salty and bitter, flooded his mouth and Hinata was suddenly inside him and all around, holding him so tightly, arms locked around his head. For the briefest moment, Hinata was his entire world.

He couldn’t breathe again, but it was glorious instead of terrifying and he could feel his own hips jerking and twitching, desperate for a friction he couldn’t supply even if he wanted to. His hands had been locked to Hinata’s hips, intent on staying like that for as long as he was allowed, even if it was only a single moment longer; unable to breathe, wrapped up in Hinata’s grip. He didn’t come, in the end, but it was good, better, that way. He didn’t want to. He wanted the desire to linger the way the taste in his mouth would linger, like the feel of Hinata clinging to him so desperately would linger. He had swallowed hard, proud of himself for not choking or leaking or anything like that.

He felt so good when he was with him that sometimes that he wanted to forget. Forget everything and just lose himself in it, just keep on living in those brief perfect moments forever even though he knew they would never last, that neither his mind nor his luck were so generous, that there was always a price to be paid.

He’d expected Hinata to leave, to disappear then or in the moments that followed. That was why he had done that, not that he hadn’t enjoyed it; he _had_ , very much, too much, but pleasure hadn’t been the _point_. The point had been that Hinata would leave on his terms and maybe he would be ready and maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much, but….

Hinata _hadn’t_ left.

Instead, he had stayed, held him to him in those moments and just after, hands in his hair, arms curled around his head as if he were… important, treasured, needed, _wanted_. Then he’d sprawled out beside him, on him, with him and it had been… perfect. Intimate. He’d felt warm and safe and almost something like happy, pressing his fingers against Hinata’s cheeks, seeing the smile that curled his lips that echoed the one on his own.

How he _hated_ him for that.

It should have made him angry, but it didn’t, not really. He was growing accustomed to the idea. The utter lack of control he had over anything, anything in this horrible place. He felt like a wet towel being wrung out, twisted up into a weapon. His skin was too hot, too tight, he ached both inside and out and he could almost convince himself that he liked it. Liked feeling this way.

He thought about jerking off there, lying on the floor with Hinata. Might as well. It was foolish and sentimental and asking for trouble trying to hold on to a memory, a souvenir, of something that wasn’t real, wasn’t anything, that didn’t matter to him at all.

The tide was well and truly back out again and he wondered idly what Hinata would do, how he would react. Whether he would truly care at all.

Would he be disgusted? Just blush and flush and shove him away, leave him to find pleasure all alone in that dark and lonely hall?

Would he like watching him get off? Would he watch him with avid, greedy eyes, lick his lips?

Would he hate it? Tell him to quit?

Would he help? Put a hand over his own, fingers threading together as they pulled him over the edge or maybe he’d just lean over and kiss him instead, soft and biting?

Take over and pull him through himself? Push his hand aside and replace it with his own? His own hand or mouth, press him down against the tiles and stare into his face as he twisted and writhed beneath him?

Would he tell him to stop? Would he mean it, if he did? Or would the protests be token and insincere?

Would he tell him how to do it? Guide him through with roughly spoken commands? Would he become like that Hinata on the bridge again? Lewd and cruel and terrible and endlessly compelling?

He could almost hear his voice, the haughty scorn of it: “You like this, don’t you? Getting off on a filthy floor? That’s perfect for worthless trash such as yourself.”

That had at least been a Hinata he could stand to lose. That was a presence he wouldn’t miss after, a presence he almost wanted now, because there was something soothing to be found in the simplicity of cruelty. To have a Hinata who wouldn’t stroke his hair or kiss him so sweetly or smile at him or seem to care so much, _too much_. One who would just whisper hate and contempt to him as he sought pleasure in spite of them, because of them, as he let those words stir something dark and familiar inside him, something screaming and tattered and broken that wanted out, out, _out_.

He thought he could feel it there, even now, that strange phantom presence, that darkness, jittering like a muscle spasm in his chest, stroking things, intimate and hidden, lighting him up from the inside. He was hot and cold, soft and hard. He wanted relief, to forget again, to just allow those delusions to swallow him down. Cruel words or kind hands, it didn’t really matter which. Either would do. Both. It didn’t matter.

The tide had been broken, crooked and warped and strange, slipping in and out for minutes, seconds at a time. He felt everything and nothing and his memories were like broken glass strewn across the floor of his soul and the music had made it _worse_.

_Infinitely worse._

Was this why Hinata had brought him to this place?

Had he brought him for the songs? Had he known that they would make it all worse? Make those memories rattle free of the moorings and rise within him? Worse, so much worse, because they were his songs, beautiful songs that he loved, loved so much, but they… he hated them too.

And that last song… that had been the worst of them all.

He’d been able to ignore it initially, because he’d been touching Hinata’s skin and sitting with him, warm and close and carelessly sprawled together, Hinata’s blood, their blood maybe, had been wet and dark, smeared across the floor and the taste and feel of him still so fresh and new in his mouth. It has been easy enough to ignore the way the music made him feel, to not acknowledge how antsy it had made him. The way his body had begun to twitch with the need to move, to pace, itchy and unsettled. The memory of that day that had been summoned by that song, that was like a ghost teasing fingers through his hair until Hinata asked him about it, brought it to his attention, forced him to _hear_ it, because _of course_ he did. Of course, he couldn’t just leave it alone.

Hinata was his heaven, but he was his hell too, in so many ways.

It was like his luck, both good and bad.

He remembered the wind in his hair and the music in his ears, those tiny, expensive little ear buds that had been shoved in his ears to keep him _quiet_ , to keep him _calm_ , to stop him from being such a whining, ungrateful little brat. The player was small, grey and sleek, and he could tuck in his pocket or hold it in his hand and it had been playing that song when it started.

When the meteor hit and then it was a sound he could just barely hear at all over the rush of air and the roar of the engines and the screaming… it seemed like there had been a lot of screaming. He should have been reaching for his special mask, like they’d told him to in case of emergency, but that part of the plane had ripped away, peeled back like a cheap tin lid and there was nothing to reach for, nothing to hold on to but the seat in which he was strapped and the little grey player in his hand. His mind was flooded with the song he couldn’t hear because he’d heard it so many times before and then there was the crash and everything was black. He assumed later that he’d been knocked unconscious by the impact, because the next thing he’d been aware of was waking up, bruised, but alive and still strapped into his seat and that music had been so loud, so very loud in his ears.

_‘Love is the power, oh yeah, it will be today, yes, and it will be here tomorrow…’_

It must have been on repeat, must have gotten stuck that way during the crash or he’d hit a button by accident when he’d squeezed it, because the song should have been long over, but it wasn’t. He remembered in a vague sort of way clawing those earbuds from his ears; that they had been cast away by his frantic fingers and fallen to the rock and churned earth in which his section of the plane had landed. He also remembered immediately wishing that he hadn’t.

He could still hear it, the music, a soft, tinny sound, but he could never be sure how much of that was just his brain playing tricks, filling in information he thought should be there. Still, it had seemed as if he could still hear it clearly enough in the background beneath the crackle of fire and the pitiful moaning, whining, incoherent cries of the dead and dying. The air had been hot, scorched by the fires that were raging all around, heavy with smoke and the smell of charred meat and burning fuel. He coughed, hacking, and mewling pitifully as he struggled, yanking at his seatbeat weakly with bloody fingers, panic beating steadily in his chest as he realized it was stuck, that _he_ was stuck. His mother had cinched it so tightly across his lap, saying he would squirm free if she didn’t and she couldn’t have him embarrassing them. He’d been bad enough on the flight out, he would behave this time, he would be good until they got home or there would be _consequences_. He was meant to stay there, stay just there and not move until they arrived at their destination. He was lucky they had brought him along at all, luckier still that they didn’t just leave him on the island with the hired help and send someone to come back and get him later.

He’d tried to explain. To explain that he was afraid, that the airplane made him nervous, really nervous because nothing had happened on the flight out so it only made sense that something twice as bad would happen on the way back. He’d begged to be left behind. He was afraid. His mother had only told him to behave and then she’d been gone and he’d been alone.

Only he’d been crying, because he was still afraid. He was afraid and the lady in the uniform (flight attendant, he knew now) had fetched his parents back to coach from first class because she’d been worried.

_He’d looked sick, she said._

She’d stood aside, concerned and regretfully, as his parents argued in the aisle about what to do about him. Whether they should pay the difference for an extra seat in first class so they could keep an eye on him and then… then there was the hijacker interrupting them, interrupting everything. He was shouting and waving a gun and his parents looked like they wanted to be anywhere else, but they weren’t permitted to move. And he’d been sitting in his seat, legs pulled to his chest, fingers tight against his knees and he was trying, he was trying to stop crying like his father asked, to smile like he wanted, to not whine, but he was scared of being so high, he was scared of the man with the gun, he was…

And just like that they were just…

Just gone. 

One minute there and the next… a flash of warmth and they were gone along with the flight attendant and a chunk of the seat beside him and the wind was in his hair, whipping it around his face in a frenzy. It was darker then than it was now, he thought pointlessly, his hair had been strawberry blonde then, the same color as his mother’s.

He wasn’t sure how he’d forgotten.

Wasn’t sure why it mattered or if it even did really.

It hadn’t been like that for a long time.

He’d been lucky.

It had been such extraordinary good luck that he hadn’t been killed immediately like they were or in the crash after.

He had been incredibly unlucky.

Because his parents had and he was…

He had extraordinary bad luck and then extraordinary good luck. That was how it worked, wasn’t it? It balanced. 

It must balance. Everything had to balance. His luck was never quite an even exchange. The good luck always outweighed the bad because otherwise it would never be worth it. So his life had been worth more than the lives of his parents, of all those other passengers and crew people. That was proper though, wasn’t it? They were just… ordinary, boring parents and people and he… he was special.

_Lucky._

He’d pried and yanked at the seatbelt, wriggling as the warmth of the fire leapt from seat to seat, the sickening chemical smell of burning upholstery filling his nostrils in place of the charred meat smell and it was both better and worse. He pulled and pried at the metal and the rough stitched cloth of the belt with his fingers only vaguely aware that he was weeping, wailing as he struggled frantically to free himself. He could hear the crackle and smell the stench of his own hair singeing as he finally struggled free, having managed to loosen the belt just enough to squirm from the seat. He scrapped his bare skinny bruised and bleeding legs painfully as he fell forward and out, tripping and smashing face first into the dirt. It hurt. Everything hurt and he coughed and spat dirt and blood as he crawled away down the aisle, or what was left of it, and away. One leg was almost useless, bright, sheering pain shooting through it every time he tried to use it to help push himself along. He managed to drag his aching body out and away from the plane to collapse in a heap nearby. He knew he was still too close, that he should keep going, but he was too tired. 

The silence erupted in an explosion of fire and light and a stinging, ringing sound and he clapped his palms over his ears, sobbing into his bent knees as he felt something hot and horrible scrap across his back as he was peppered with sharp pains and that terrible roaring, ringing sound continued and it seemed like the whole world was igniting around him.

The air was hot, burning white hot and terrible around him.

And then it w _asn’t_.

Then he was cold and his knees ached from kneeling on the tile floor, as if he’d been there for hours, days even, and his ears were still ringing and he was alone in the dark.

He’d been with Hinata, hadn’t he?

They’d been… had there been a diner?

He’d been afraid and he… he wasn’t… wasn’t sure how he’d gotten here.

Or where here was, only that it was dark.

Very, _very_ dark.

“Hinata?” He whispered, his voice soft and broken, little better than the whimper of the child he’d been calling for someone, anyone. Only… not just anyone would do, not anymore.

_Pathetic._

And, of course, no one answered.

No one was there, not Hinata, not anyone.

_No one had answered then either._

There was no one to answer him, there never had been, and even when there had been, they never had, he’d always been alone. He laughed, soft and self-deprecating, as he picked himself up off the floor and stumbled forward through the black of the hall. He swayed, off-balance and careened into a wall, laughing just that much harder, because it _was_ funny. He was just the lowest, most vile creature to ever crawl the earth, wasn’t he? Losing himself in his own delusions time and again and always so _surprised_ when they turned out to be just his desperate desires given life and breath by a lifetime of practice.

There was no hope in such things, only despair.

How many times did he have to do this before he stopped clinging to that desperate hope? Wrapping it around him as he wrapped himself in this soiled, bloody shirt to guard against the harder truths. That great ill fated hope that he wasn’t alone?

That he was… that he’d ever been wanted, needed, necessary?

By _anyone?_

_Ever?_

It was funny. Really funny and it made him laugh and laugh and laugh, the sound echoing around him down the empty corridors of the hospital, because _of course_ it was a hospital.

He leaned more heavily against the wall, suddenly exhausted, letting his cheek press against the bulletin board, the smell of cork mixing with the disinfectant and decay smell of the hospital hall.

He despised places like this and he felt the most at home there as well. It was a dangerous conundrum. It didn’t matter how he’d gotten here or how long he’d been here, did it? It could have been moments or years and it wouldn’t have mattered.

Maybe he’d never really left at all.

Maybe he’d always been here.

Maybe Hope’s Peak had only ever been in his head.

The island and the murders and all those special people and dying and… Hinata.

Maybe Hinata wasn’t real, had never been real.

Or maybe he had been and he was still dead and this was just another delusion. Another facet of the hell he’d found himself in.

Maybe this was just the next phase of his bad luck.

Maybe he was being stupid.

It was just a hospital. Just a hospital so why…

Panic and bile rose in his throat and he moaned, dragging his fingers down the board, ripping rivets in the cork with his fingernails, knocking pushpins and papers this way and that.

Two realities went to war in his head.

He was still in the hospital and everything else had been….

He was dead and he’d reached a new level of Hell….

He laughed, hating and loving the way the sound rattled in his chest and echoed in the hall around him.

That salty taste on his tongue wasn’t truly real and even if it was it was probably because he’d jerked off and licked the salty, sticky fluid from his own fingers.

_Disgusting._

There was no Hinata at all.

Or there was no Hinata here.

Either way, he’d only ever been playing with himself.

And games were never much fun without someone to play them with, were they?

“How many times does that particularly idiotic hope have to be dashed across rocks or the floors or your stupid, worthless, pathetic head before you understand that there is no hope to be had in hell? That all that lingers here is despair?“

She whispered the last, fingers trailing down his back over his spine and he moaned, squeezing his eyes shut. To block out her darkness with more darkness, “You’re not _real_. Go away. Go _away_. I don’t _want_ you here.” 

And he _didn’t_. He didn’t. If had to see things, he wanted to be him, not _her_. Never her.

_Not anymore._

“You don’t think he’s real either, but you seem eager enough for his company,” she replied, her voice even and measured. 

She grabbed him, spun him and shoves him hard down the corridor. He hit the floor hard on his hands and knees with a startled yelp. Her heels were loud on tile, click clack, in the dark. She stopped behind him and he felt her weight settle against his back. Her breasts pressed against him, as she leaned forward to shove her fingers into either side of his mouth, digging her thumbs into his cheeks and pulling his lips back, a painful parody of ventriloquism: “Oh, Hinata, I wuv you _sooooo_ much. You feel _soooo_ good, I want you _soooo_ bad!” He could here the sneer in her voice, her fingernails dug painfully against his cheeks.

“It’s just _pathetic_ the way you pant after him, but then you know that already, don’t you?” Her voice was sly and the fingers of her left hand slid over his tongue before she jammed them sharp and sudden down his throat. He gagged as her nails scratched against the back of his throat, drawing back quickly as he vomited. The taste of bile filled his mouth and he coughed and heaved. It splattered against the floor as she laughed, as she drug her fingers down his sides, settling her hands against his hips. He flinched and whimpered, his fingers curling, scrapping against the tiles, but he didn’t move to dislodge her.

Couldn’t.

He wasn’t sure why.

“Pretty fantasies, but you know he doesn’t want you. Who would? Your very existence is reason enough to despair. No one loves you, no one cares, no one ever has and no one ever will. You know that, don’t you? You know you’re not worthy of affection, not even from that boring, ordinary boy. This is why you’re all alone, Nagito. Why you’re alone here, why you were alone before, why you’ll always be alone. That’s why no one every stays. It isn’t your luck, you know, it’s just _you_. You’re filthy trash that just isn’t unworthy of anyone’s time, or love, or hate. Heck, you’re hardly even worth sparing a thought for at all.” 

She laughed, so loud and echoing that it drowned out the frantic whine of his hysteria, but he still couldn’t move. He could barely breath past the casual cruelty of her words. They shouldn’t have bothered him, they shouldn’t have. He’d had these thoughts a hundred times himself, a thousand, she wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t know, anything he hadn’t whispered to himself at night with his knees tucked up against his chest, his world in shambles around him, alone in that big, big house. That he hadn’t thought as he shivered in that trash bag after he’d been dumped, too weak and thirsty and depressed to even bother clawing his way out of the bag. What would have been the point?

“He lives in that big huge house and you’re telling me there’s no one willing to pay for him. Not even the servants. Not even a guardian?” The man who had kidnapped him had been incredulous, had even kicked the bag in his frustration, but he hadn’t been surprised. He’d known all that. 

He didn’t even blame them. It only made sense. He was an annoyance, always underfoot and pestering them for things and too loud and nothing like his parents had been.

They’d even inherit a portion of the estate if he predeceased them and they’d never liked him very much in the first place. He’d known that. He wasn’t very likable. They didn’t hate him, didn’t feel strongly enough or need the money badly enough to kill him. Though he thought that might change someday. 

_Sometimes, when he’d first began attending Hope’s Peak, when he’d had a particularly poor day, he’d thought about docking or withholding their pay altogether to see if they’d do it. If they’d care enough to come after him, to set his dorm on fire or something, but in the end he never did._

_But he’d thought about it often._

He wasn’t as if he had blamed them. He’d thought about firing them after he’d come home, but they’d just gone on the way they’d always been as if nothing had happened at all. After the police had found him, while he was at the hospital for treatment, he’d found out that they’d notified the police that he was missing. A day after he’d disappeared, but it had been more than he’d expected. More than he’d deserved. He’d been forced to endure a battery of tests he hadn’t asked for and then allowed to go. 

After he collected his lottery winnings and added them to the bank account that was already full of far more money than he knew what to do with, he thought again about firing them. Telling them to go.

In the end, he hadn’t bothered. 

They took care of the house well enough. As long as they did their jobs, he didn’t really care. He’d cared even less after the tests had come back and the doctor had informed him of the diagnosis and advised treatment.

_He’d been eleven and he’d been scared of the surgery, scared of not waking up or the follow-up care and treatments that sounded awful. The long list of possible side effects and complications that sounded even worse. He’d seen all those bald-headed kids when he’d passed through the children’s ward. He hoped he wouldn’t be bald. He didn't hate his hair._

_He’d seen their beds surrounded by dead-eyed stuffed animals and too many flowers. Their rooms often crowded with tired parents and worried relatives. He could imagine his own room: empty._

_He’d gone to his appointments alone, packed his bags alone, taken a taxi to the hospital. He’d checked in alone. His lawyer had already signed all the paperwork for him days ago. He’d closed his eyes alone and woke back up aching and alone with pieces missing. He rubbed a finger of the stitches and the skin had been a little tender. He didn’t even really know what a lymph node was. He doubted it was something he’d miss._

He’d been right about the empty room. 

No one visited.

He had stayed in the hospital and begun chemotherapy. There was no point in leaving, in going back to that house; there was nothing for him there after all. The first few weeks were okay. He read a lot. He’d ordered dozens upon dozens of books so that his floor and tables were piled with them. They made the room feel less empty and they calmed him down and made it easier to forget that he was lonely. He liked the way the pages smelled. He often ordered books used when he could get them.

One of the nurses had asked him about one once. She’d just been trying to be… nice. Polite, maybe, but she had been the first person to ask him something about them and he’d… been a little over-excited. It had been a mystery and he’d gone on and on about the killer’s methodology and how he’d admired the killer’s commitment and patience and the remarkable restraint he’d shown in taking the time to observe the victim’s every move for months before acting. Planning his murders down to the smallest detail and how astonishing it had been when he'd been able to slip into the heroine’s life so seamlessly. He hadn’t meant to freak her out. He’d just been… excited to have someone to talk to.

It was always like that. Things hadn’t really changed when he’d gone to school. He’d wanted them to, he’d hoped they would, but they hadn’t. Not until… Hinata. 

He shuddered and blew out a breath, clutching Hinata’s name to him like a talisman. It made him feel… better. Stronger, maybe. Even if none of it was real, even if nothing had changed. _He_ had changed… at least a little.

She was still laughing, still half-sprawled across his back, and she sounded so much like that stupid bear. That… Monokuma.

_I always hated that stupid bear._

“Get. Off,” he rasped, his voice flat and unimpressed.

She ignored him.

He wasn’t surprised. 

“And here I was thinking all this time that you’d never even be able to get it up with that weak body of yours. All those aches and pains, all that medication, but that boy crooks his finger at you and you can’t lose your pants fast enough,” she slid a hand down and around to settle against him, cupping the bulge that lingered there. The sound that escaped him was embarrassingly loud.

Why was he so scared?

“Or maybe it isn’t him. Maybe it’s just you. You certainly did like getting off for the cameras on the island, didn’t you? You’re so embarrassing. I have no idea how you don’t die of shame just living in your own skin. You could get off just like this, couldn’t you?” 

“No,” he whispered, shivering beneath that touch. Her hand was so cold, even through layers of fabric. So unpleasant, just like her.

Who was she?  
  
Why was she….

Why couldn’t he just shake her off? 

Why is he so afraid?

Why was he letting her… why was he letting her when he didn’t want…?

“Don’t touch me,” he managed finally, but it sounded weak, more whine than protest. He sounded like a _child_ and it just made her laugh again, that same horrible, irritating laugh. “Just go away and leave me _alone_.”

Pupupupupu.... he hated that sound. _Hated it._  

“Oh, Nagito, I’ve seen the way you let him touch you, you little freak. Sticking his fingers inside you? Licking your wounds? You’re defective, maybe dying broke something or maybe you were always into that kind of thing. What do you think? Were you always that big a pervert? Was he? I especially liked when he jerked you off on the beach. Not so much when he was trying to choke you to death, though I suppose that was fun in its own way, but afterwards when you were both weeping like a couple of babies.”

He doesn’t want to think about that.

He doesn’t want to, but the dark makes it impossible to think about anything else. He thinks, briefly, about bashing his head in against the tiles.

“You shouldn't try it,” she whispered, voice soft and deadly. “I’ll just have to patch you up and we’ll need to start all over again. Y-You'll have to forgive me, I wouldn't wish you any unnecessary pain, but sometimes a painful cure is necessary to combat a deadly virus. Did you know?”

She sounded different that time.

Different somehow and he…

“You dove off the bridge with him and you woke up in the water,” she whispered the words and the memory is flaring to life all around him, swallowing him back down into those moments. 

Falling.

He’s on the bridge, stepping over the edge with his arms around him. The memory of that moment is like a gaping, chattering wound filled with Hinata’s- no, not Hinata’s, _Izuru_ ’s voice whispering in his ear. He had promised dark and secret things, things that he wanted and despised in equal measure and he bit his lip until it bled to keep from crying out or answering. How next time they met, he might not want to escape him, that Hinata’s absence would have left such a terrible, ragged hole within him that he’d let anything, anyone, fill it up.

Even him.

Even _her_.

It had felt like a promise.

And a warning and he’d felt sick.

So sick. 

He woke up on the beach, in the water, choking with the feel of Hinata’s hands on him, holding him down, stroking him through, and it was hard to tell if it was ecstasy or agony. He was certain he’d died again and again, drowning beneath the waves and being reborn, that maybe he’d come again and again beneath that cruel parody’s rough touch. A seemingly endless, inescapable cycle of pain and death and pleasure and he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to escape as his body had renewed itself over and over again.

Sometimes he ‘d been real and present and horrified and other times he’d been lost to sensation, his hips bucking up into that touch, seeking more, more, faster, rougher and all of it _now_. Wanted it to hurt enough to blot out the sun, to erase the feel of the cold, cold rain and the ocean waves. He screamed and choked and died and was born again, his body seeking what it needed, what it craved and for a long time there was only that. He merely floated through the pleasure and the pain over and over again, fresh and new each time, but familiar all the same and he’s nothing like a person in those moments. Not really and that’s fine. All he needed were those crazed drunken moments of screaming, sheering ecstasy.

Then that rough, sure touch vanished and his body was devastated, rendered in stark lines of agony at the sudden loss.

He crashed to earth, empty and wretched.

He was Komaeda Nagito, alone once more. 

The world was put to rights and it feels as if he’s teetering on the edge of an abyss and all that awaits him within is an eternity of despair and he could fall into it willing and never care.

And maybe he would have, but before he has a chance to consider it, there had been hands, gentle and firm, searing and too hot against his oversensitive skin, pulling him up and out of the water, urging him away from the ocean waves and onto the shore. 

He stumbled forward, allowing himself to be guided, his numb fingers clutching desperately at his pants and belt to keep them from falling away and being lost to the ocean waves. It was habit rather than any desire for decency that made him cling to them, he’d never been decent and he’d been more than aware that his cock was, like the rest of his skin still too-sensitive, every step hurt as the cloth brushed against him, half-hard and poking awkwardly through the slit in his wet underwear. He didn’t care about that. Not really. All he really cared about was the arm caught up tightly around his waist, the hands supporting him, keeping him from falling until they finally tumbled together onto damp, hard-packed sand.

 _His_ Hinata. 

It had to be, because who else would bother to save him from himself, from his own desires, but this perfect fraud? A hand whacked down sharply against his back as he’d hacked and coughed and vomited cold, briny, nasty water across the sand. There were apologies and confusion and questions asked in Hinata’s soft entreating, panicked voice and he didn’t have any answers to offer. He didn’t really even hear have of the things he said. Most of it sounded like gibberish, everything was too strange, too loud, too…

 _“Are… you okay?” He’d asked._  

Okay? _Really?_

 _Really, Hinata?_   

Certainly not that, never that, he wasn’t sure he’d ever been okay. Maybe once a long, long time ago when he was small and the world was… different. Before all this, before everything he’d become and everything he hadn’t. Maybe he’d been okay back then, but he didn’t think so.

He didn’t think so. 

His body felt like it was smoldering, a fire banked but ready to flare to life once more at any moment. The need, the urge to finish what had been started was overwhelming. He could do it himself. It wasn’t as if Hinata hadn’t seen him at his lowest, at his worst, what was a little post-death jerking off between….

Whatever they were to each other. 

Did it even matter what he called it?

He could just do it to himself, but his muscles ached. His hands felt huge and swollen and numb, more like a flipper than hand almost. Useless, just like the rest of him. 

He ached and Hinata was there, so close, and it was his fault he was like this anyway.

What did it really matter? He was already so low. What did it matter if he sunk a little lower? It wasn’t as if Hinata could really think less of him, after all. If he didn’t want him, he could reject him. What did he care? It wasn’t as if he wasn’t used to that, worthless trash that he was. 

He wanted to be close to him.

 _Needed_ to be close to him. 

It felt like he was going to shatter to pieces any moment as he slid his hands across the sand, pressed them against Hinata’s knees. He wavered there, waiting for the inevitable rejection, for the disgust, something, anything, but it never came. It never came and so what else could he do but move closer? To finish what he’d started by pulling his aching, traitorous body across the distance between them, oozing across the beach like sludge, a revolting blob of want and need and aching pain that crept slowly and reluctantly into Hinata, sliding his arms up around his neck.

His breath had come in reluctant gasps, heavy wet little spasms of sound as he settled himself across his lap, wrapped his legs around him in slow, pained movements and pressed the aching length of his cock against Hinata’s cold, wet shirt-clad belly. The buttons are like chips of ice against the length of him, but it hadn’t really mattered. Just being close to him made him feel good, better. His skin was still too sensitive, but it was settling slowly becoming less painful. It was awful and wonderful at once and he wondered vaguely if he should be embarrassed.

He’s not, but he thought maybe he _should_ be ashamed of the things he wants. A better person would be. A person would be. But he’s… just… his hips stuttered, shifting against Hinata, unable to stand the waiting any longer. He shifted and tightened his legs around Hinata’s waist, pushed closer, seeking relief. 

Any moment Hinata was going to realize. He was going to realize what he was doing, what he wanted, and he was going to shove him away, disgusted.

Only he _doesn’t_. 

He feels Hinata’s breath shudder against his cheek and then he’s pressing shaking hands against his back, holding him, bringing him closer and everything seemed to collapse beneath the gentle, tentative press of those hands.

It’s so _good_.

 _He’s_ so good. 

He had sobbed, great, heaving gulps of sound that had shaken out of his chest like wails as if he’d been holding them in for days or years and he cried harder and louder than he’d done in… ever, probably.

It was like pressure releasing, like Hinata had turned some relief valve within him and years of… rage and hate and sadness were bleeding away leaving him a stranger in the aftermath. Had those been his? He didn’t remember ever being so angry or sad or… any of those things. He’d always just been….

He’s not sure.

It doesn’t matter.

When he starts moving against Hinata in earnest he murmured an insincere apology as he tightened his grip seeking greater friction. It felt illicit, sleazy, as if he were stealing something even though he’d just been given a gift. He wasn’t sure if Hinata heard him or if he even cared. Hinata wasn’t real after all. So why should he care about his feelings? What did it even matter if Hinata held him? Why shouldn’t he just use him as he saw fit? What did it matter? What did anything matter? 

He could hear himself whimpering distantly, his body becoming increasingly frantic, quaking and shivering and bucking and writhing and nothing he does is ever quite enough.

And then Hinata’s voice was in his ear, rough and soothing, giving him permission to misbehave, to continue. Hinata threading fingers into his hair and pressing the flat of his hand more firmly against the small of his back, a rhythmic pressure that moved with him, urged him on. He moaned into it, into that strange welcome feeling of acceptance and it warmed him, made him impossibly harder, and he wanted to get off, wanted to dirty Hinata’s pretty white shirt, twin of the one he wore if one didn’t qualify the blood stains. He whimpered against his shoulder and he imagined he could feel the hard line of Hinata’s cock pressing up against him, as if he were bearing down against the head with each downward sweep of his wayward hips, had a vague half-formed wish that there were no clothes between them, just bare, clammy skin. He moved faster, thrusts short and abrupt and it was okay, but it wasn’t quite what he needed. The more he moved, the further away the target seemed, he sobbed again, frustrated. Was going he going to fail even at this? He shifted again and again, anxious and annoyed and exhausted. Everything hurt. He just wanted to get off. Why was this so difficult? Why couldn’t he just? He was so tired. So tired. What was wrong with him that he couldn’t even…?

Worthless. 

He was the worst. Hinata shouldn’t have to humor him like this. Shouldn’t have put up with his urges, the pathetic whine of his voice.

It was sick, wasn’t it? 

Wanting to get off like this. If he wanted to get off so badly, he could have just jerked off, numb flipper hands or no. He could have muddled through. It would have been just as effective apparently. But no, not him, no, he wanted to hold him, to wrap himself around him, hump him like he was… like he was an animal. Like he was everything that other Hinata- _Izuru_  -had called him.

And, of course, he was alone.

So what was he actually doing? Not jerking off, right? His hands still felt strange and numb, like they weren’t even his, so he’s not sure he could effectively even if he wanted to. So what then?

The sand, maybe? He managed to suffocate himself with it once or twice, so why not? Good enough to choke on, good enough to fuck?

Or maybe it was one of the palm trees? Maybe he was unknowingly chafing himself raw, destroying that part of himself against a palm tree? 

Between the slats of a beach chair? No, that was just silly. He’d never be able to get off that way. It would be like trying to hump vertical blinds, ridiculous and useless all at once.

Of course, he wasn’t getting off _this_ way either, so….

Maybe he was just tucked and squeezed uncomfortably between his own thighs? Would that even work? Probably not, that seemed… painful. Pointless. 

Did it even matter really what he was doing? How he was doing it? He was revolting. He was sick and pathetic. Such a hopeless, worthless, utterly useless piece of garbage. He wasn’t the least bit worthy of his own attention much less the attentions of anyone else.

And then he could hear Hinata’s voice again and it seemed like he’d been speaking for a long, long time and every new word felt pelt against him like hail, chipping away at him, cracking a fissures of pleasure open within him. Hinata’s words beat within him like a symphony and there’s desperation to them that he can’t understand or he doesn’t want to understand. But that doesn’t matter. Not really. It’s enough that they slip within him like water on parched, cracked soil.

“No, no, you’re okay. I've got you. God, Komaeda, come on. Just come for me, please? I want you to… just… come on, I need you here with me, okay? Yeah, okay, like that, yes, that's... uhnn... good, you're good, don’t stop, okay? I want you to, okay? Oh god, you feel so good. I'm so... I'm sorry, I... is it bad that I... oh god, Komaeda, come on, that’s it, like that.” 

It feels as if he’s creating a new wound within him, a secret place deep inside, just for him, where he can push the lie of those words inside him like he’d pushed fingers in last time and to similar effect. He’s a panting, mewling mess against him, so close that the world narrows down to the places their bodies join. He knows they aren’t true, can’t be true, none of them, but he can’t bring himself to reject them.

He’s so pathetic.

“Hinata?” He whispered, turning his mouth against Hinata’s cheek, it’s cool and wet beneath his lips.

Why is he doing this?

Why is he saying all those things?

Why doesn’t he push him away?

Why?

_Why?_

“Ssh, Komaeda, it’s okay. You’re okay. I won't let you go. You're gonna be okay. I want you, I-I need you. So, just... just stay with me, okay? Yeah, okay, that's it, that’s good, like that, please, please, come on, Komaeda, _please_ ,” And he’s certain he’s sobbing still, his entire body feels raw, ripped wide open and he can feel words shaking from him one after another, but he has no idea what they are. He knows only that they feel filthy and that he has no right to ask for any of it, to say those words to Hinata at all. That any moment Hinata is going to cast him aside, shove him to the dirt, disgusted, reject him, and he wants that, wants it to happen, but the moment never comes. The moment never comes and Hinata never stops talking, his voice soft and hurried and almost frantic, “Anything. Anything you want. Come on, just keep… god, I want you to come, please, you feel so good, so good. Yes, oh god, you feel so… I’m so… love you. You're so... why can't you just... I hate you, god, you're so.... Come on, don’t stop, Komaeda, oh god, Komaeda, whatever you need, please, _please_ … just let me.... let me.”

And he’s so close, so close, so _close_ and then Hinata’s fingers are there, curling around him, his grip almost painfully tight.

As soon as he touches him, wraps around him, it’s like a circuit has been completed and his body is strung tight like a bowstring and the only word on his lips is yes, because this, this was what he needed, what he wanted, what he’d been waiting for. And it’s as it was in the water and completely different too. His Hinata. _His._ Not that cruel impostor. _His Hinata._ And that makes all the difference.

He loves him.

He _hates_ him.

He could spend the rest of his life in this moment, on this precipice, teetering above the fall, the word ‘yes’ wound round and through him, binding him up in this moment until Hinata finally deigns to pull him over. And his voice a rasp of sound in his ear that he’ll hear every time he closes his eyes for the next hundred thousand years. 

But it doesn’t feel like ‘yes’, it feels like ‘ _mine’_ and he slips, spilling, spinning, sobbing that word over and over as he does like to the time of the beat of his frantic heart and he hears it echoed in Hinata’s voice. He’s coming and every pulse feels like a brand in his veins like Hinata has scribbled his name within him, down in the deepest, darkest pieces of his tattered, filthy soul and it’s utterly inescapable and unavoidable and even if he could, he wouldn’t _want_ to save himself from this feeling of being branded, owned, _complete_.

And then the moment is gone and the word is still whispering between them, but his skin is too chafed, raw, oversensitive and he twitches his hips away on a gasp of ‘too much’ and Hinata is nodding, understanding, when he tells him which he both loves and hates. Hinata’s hands are gentle as they tuck his cock away, back into cold, wet briefs that sting against his skin, and he has to bite back a moan because it’s right on that razor’s edge between too much and not enough and he almost wants him to continue, to drag a second orgasm out of him or at least try until he begged for him to stop.

But he wouldn’t.

Not this Hinata, _his_ Hinata.

Not him, with his soft words and gentle reassurances or that hand that lingers in his hair, careful, as he’d leaned back to fasten his pants with clumsy fingers that are still feel swollen. He shivers, cold inside, bereft and empty and maybe a little guilty in the aftermath. He bites his lip and fumbles the buttons, but keeps at it because he needed… he really needed to not be naked anymore.

He could still feel the hard line of Hinata’s cock against his fingers as he wrestled with the fastenings on his pants. He wanted to touch him, slip his hand around him, his mouth maybe, he wondered what Hinata would taste like on his tongue, how he would feel pressed against the inside of his cheek, what it would be like to have him thrust into his mouth as freely as he’d once thrust into his.

Would he choke, would he be able to take it, to swallow it down, would he come again just from the feel of him there?

He wanted to find out, he _wanted_ to, but fear held him back, gave an additional tremble to his hands and the words came slipping out before he could think to stop them, “Hinata, don’t…  _leave_. Don’t...”

And he hadn’t. He’d kissed him instead and it had been unbearably pathetic and so good, so very good.

And terrible too.

Like everything about Hinata was terrible. Because he had wanted to kiss him forever, to let him fuck him as they knelt on that beach in the pouring rain, to feel the slap of skin on skin, to feel bruising fingers on his hips and he hadn’t cared that he wasn’t real. Hadn’t cared about any of that in the moment, because real or not, he wanted _him_.

“I’m not…” he whispered, trailing off, uncertain what he’d intended to say. He didn’t want to talk about Hinata with her, not with her, no.

Hinata was _his_.

Not _hers_.

 _Never_ hers.

“Oh, c’mon, Nagito, you don’t think he’s really into you, do you? You were on that island together for ages and you never actually even made a move on him, you little stalker. Though I saw how often you’d just chafe yourself raw with his name on your lips.” She laughed and it was mocking and sharp, almost a cackle and he longed to feel nothing, but instead shame swamped him, self-loathing seeping through the cracks in his composure. Cracks that memory had left wide open.

 _He makes you weak and vulnerable._  

“I kept expecting you to sneak into his room or up to his window at night and beat off over him while you watched him sleep. Everyone knew, you know. Everyone laughed about your little crush behind your back. Little psycho like you thinking you had a chance with the hero of the piece? Who wouldn’t laugh at that?”

“And that was before you even knew the truth about each other: that you let yourself fall into despair and that he is nothing more than ordinary.”

“I’m sure he hates you, if he even thinks of you at all, which he almost certainly doesn’t. You killed his little girlfriend, you know. That pretty girl that he’d been chasing all around the island, the sleepy one with the backpack.”

“Nanami,” he supplied, trembling, swallowing hard. He remembered all too well Hinata’s harsh words and exasperation on the beach. “Nanami Chiaki.”

“Hm, that’s right, I’d forgotten. Nanami. You had to know he liked her. She liked him too. They were together before the end. I saw everything that happened on the island, you know, every single, dirty little thing. The way she’d slide her hand into his pants in the dark.” Her fingers slipped up over him, flicking on the top fastening on his pants and dipping, edging inside.

He whimpered, shame and desire going to war. Remembering the beach had made him ache again. He didn’t want her to touch it; he didn’t want her to say these things, because he could picture Nanami’s hand, the expression that might cross Hinata’s face. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t worry, he’s a boring lay. He’d just sit there, beat red and embarrassed and she’d open his pants up just like this, pull his cock out at breakfast and jerk him off and have him gripping the table and trying not to groan as he came before anyone else even noticed anything was happening.”

“That never happened,” Nagito murmured, swallowing hard trying to ignore the nails scrapping across him, wrestling the fastenings on his pants open.

Why wasn’t he stopping her?

Why couldn’t he?

_Why?_

“Didn’t it? How would you know? What can you even remember? What do you know about what's true? What's real? You’re dead, remember? Your synapses aren’t firing, they’re just fading and chunks of memory are positively leaping off you and falling away into the abyss. There’s no telling what you’ve forgotten so far. I'm trying to help you, you know. You should be grateful for my time. And you can picture it, can’t you? So, who’s to say it isn’t real? That it didn’t happen? The know the way he’d look, don't you? The way he’d bite his lip, just like he did in the hall just now, the way his fingers would clutch the tabletop? All white and red splotchy and the way his breath would quicken and maybe you’re imagining that he’d sneak looks at you, like he’s thinking about your hand on his dick instead of hers. You’d like that wouldn’t you, hm? Of course, it's more likely he's just looking at you because you’re making him uncomfortable since you won’t stop staring at him, you little freak. Either way, it probably wouldn’t really matter to you. You’d lick your lips, meet his gaze, hold it, and when he came, you could see it in the flutter of his eyelids and the parting of his lips. In the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach out and you were sitting across from him, and the tables were narrow, so narrow that your knees knocked together underneath. So when he came, some got on your pants. You felt the impact and he stared at you, clearly spent, but maybe a little interested too."

"He slipped beneath the table, pretending he dropped a fork or something, saw the mess he’d left behind and licked it off. You could feel him pull the fabric taunt and hear the scratch of his tongue against the rough fabric of your pants. You’re hard, right? How embarrassing. It's probably a little bit because he’s licking your pants, but mostly because that’s the closest anyone outside a nurse giving you a sponge bath has ever been to your dick. His hands are on your thighs, thumbs tracing the inner seams up to your crotch and then there are hands on your belt, unfastening it. You wanted to move, of course, but you couldn’t, because you knew it was him and you were so nervous you almost came right then, but you managed to hold back. You just let it happen. Let him unfasten your pants, slide your dick out and you’re sweating a little, panting, almost feverish. Just having someone, anyone at all, who is willing to touch you, to put their hands on you like that, but maybe it’s also a little bit because it’s him.”

He knew it wasn’t real, that none of it was real, that he was on the floor in that pitch black hallway, but he was also sprawled in that chair, at her table, all the same. He was trying not to look at Nanami who had fallen asleep, her arms pillowed beneath her head on the tabletop, the fingers of one hand wet and a little shiny. His hands were splayed wide on the table and the others were nearby, unseen, but close enough that he could hear their conversations like flies buzzing at the back of his head. He can feel them there, but he doesn’t care about them. All he cares about are the hands on him, how it almost hurts having them fumble him free of his too-tight pants. How one hand continues to press against his thigh like there was any chance he’d close his legs now, while the other presses past his dick, fingers seeking his balls, fingers sliding over forcing the fabric wide. He hears it rip and yelps, the hand against his thigh pinning in him in place when he would have moved. The constricting pressure of the fabric eases and those fingers are able to cup his balls fully, fondling them as a warm mouth locks around the head of his dick. “He suckled at it like a babe at a tit. And it felt so good, didn’t it? You weren't quiet it either. You were like the thing that wouldn't shut up. Even though they were all there. They were all watching you, they all knew what you were doing, and they were all disgusted by you. You were ashamed of yourself, weren't you? Ashamed, but still too turned on to care.”

“Yes,” he whispered, because he knew that was his line. That he had a part to play and it didn’t matter if this was real or fantasy, he was just a puppet meant to dance on her string. He curled his hand in Hinata’s hair, coaxed him closer, to take him deeper and Hinata came willing and silent, eager for it. He sucked dick like he was born to do it. “But he drew back, fought free of your grasp, panting. You can feel his breath, warm and moist and he’s telling you to take off your pants.”

“But…”

“You don’t want him to stop do you? He’ll stop if you don’t lose the pants, dummy.”

He’s vaguely aware that he's struggling out of them, of how slow and clumsy his movements feel as he wrestles his way out of the fabric. Unhelpful, unwanted hands smooth over the bared skin beneath, sliding over his scars, the tips of fingers catching against the wounds on his thighs. And it feels wrong, wrong, _horrifyingly_ wrong. He winces, shrinking away from those fleeting touches, but his head is too foggy and strange and a moment later he can’t remember why he found it so disconcerting in the first place. The strange faded watercolor memory of Hinata kneeling between his legs, unseen, breathing – a little creepily if he’s honest – against him beneath a cloth covered table is fading, becoming less distinct with every passing moment, less real with every moment of silence.

Then as if she knew, or as if he'd said the last thought aloud, her voice is back in his ear and those images began to take on weight and meaning again, life and color returning to the world. “He’s got his mouth locked back around you the moment you do, arms around your waist, taking you all the way to the hilt again and again. You barely have to do anything because he knows exactly what you want, how you like it, his tongue in your slit like before and sweeping in rough circles around the head, his fingers sliding around to squeeze the base and the suction is perfect. And you’re so close, so close, but he won’t let you come. It goes on for hours, hours until it’s more pain than pleasure, but still he won’t grant you reprieve. You’ve been pleading, begging, sobbing all that time and still he continues, still you’re not allowed completion. You're desperate. You'd do _anything_ , be _anything_ , if he'd just grant you release. Finally he draws back and asks you to do one little thing, one tiny thing, and promises that he’ll give you what you want, anything you want, if you do.”

“Yes, please, _please_ ,” he can barely manage to choke the words out. He knows, knows, or at least he’s pretty sure, that he’s kneeling on the floor, his forehead pressed against his folded arms on the floor. He’s broken fingernails against the tile, curled up defensively as fingers slide up his back, delicate fingers and he hates them, wants to rip them off and shove them down her throat, but if he moves… if he moves… 

His shorts are damp, his pants gone, but he can’t… he can’t… because he’s on the floor of the hospital in the dark, but he’s also at her table, caught in her narrative like a fly in a web of lies. “Please… anything… just….”

“You’re so close, aren’t you?”

And he was and it was _awful_.

And it was exhilarating.

This… _despair_.

Because he wasn’t… he wasn’t….

“Take off your shirt.”

“What?” He sobbed, confused, aching, wanting nothing more than to _run_ , but he couldn’t… he couldn’t run, not like _this_. Not while his body was so pathetically weak and wrong and sick, almost as if it wasn’t his at all.

Something was different.

Something was wrong.

Something was really, really _wrong_.

“Take off the shirt, Mister Komaeda.” She ordered again, giving the cloth a violent tug.

“No,” he snapped, feeling strangely childish in his denial. He clutched the fabric with aching fingers, “Don’t want to.”

“Yes, you do, of course, you do. You love him now, don’t you? As much as something like you can love anything? And when you love someone you’ll do anything for them, won’t you?” She whispered and there was something… different about it. The voice was still familiar, but it wasn’t _hers_. “Anything at all? Even for someone like _him_? Even for someone as mundane and forgettable as Hinata Hajime? Even for someone who isn’t our beloved? You want him to love you so you’ll crawl or beg or plead if he asks you. You’ll take everything he’ll give you, every slight and hurt and you’ll beg for more, won’t you? You’re not even good enough to lick the mud off his shoes or the come off his girlfriend’s hand, but you’ll do whatever you have to so that he’ll look at you. So, he’ll see only you. Isn’t that how it is? Isn’t it? So, take off the shirt, Mister Komaeda. It’s not like he’s asking you to lasso the moon. It’s just a shirt. J-Just a dirty old shirt.”

“No, I… I’m not… I don’t….”

“Do you want him to hate you? Do you want him to stop?” Her voice was snappish, impatient, frustrated, maybe. “H-He won’t forgive you if you don’t obey. I-If you don't do what you're told.”

That strange broken memory was whiting out, burning up like a overheated filmstrip flaking away in blackened pieces all around him. The others were gone, their faint voices warping, bending, a metallic moan of sound. The table faded and Nanami along with it, her glistening fingers the last to go. The Hinata that knelt before him was nothing more than a faceless ghost, lacking in substance and easily dismissed.

Laughter bubbled up in his throat, loud and hysterical, “Yes, I want this to stop. I don’t want this. This isn’t what I hope for. You’re thinking of someone else. And you don’t know him at all either. Hinata is what I want, but he’s so much more than _this_.”

“W-Why are you still saying his _name_?” She hissed, her fingers tight and painful in his hair as she dragged him upright. “You know that the greatest hope can only truly come from the greatest despair. How many times have you said that? Like a thousand times. So m-many times that I’m sick of hearing it. Only _she_ can give you what you _want_ , what you _n-need_. He’s not even _real_. He never was. He’s just a memory. He shouldn’t even _exist_ ,” she stomped her foot like a child throwing a tantrum. She stumbled a little and gasped, startled. It sounded like the heel of her shoe had broken.

Funny.

It was really funny.

“You’re _jealous_ ,” he managed, his laughter growing with the realization.

“What?” she replied, flat and incredulous.

“He’s made things _difficult_ , hasn’t he? He gummed up the works. You thought it would be so simple, that it wouldn’t matter, but it _did_. _He_ did. That ordinary little nobody beat you, didn’t he? That’s why you’re down here in the dark with me. He made all the difference in the world and your despair was smashed by the brilliance of the hope within him.” His laughter is wild now out of control, raging like a fire across a dry field and he’s a bystander, content to just watch it all _burn_. As if he is merely watching the action from the sidelines as someone else reads his lines, an understudy taking his role for the moment.

“Oh, honey, I haven’t lost anything yet.”

The laughter died and dread unfurled in his stomach like a flower blossoming in that charred field. “What?”

She smiled, smug and satisfied, like a cat in cream, “Oh? Did poor, sweet widdle Nagito think his paltry, precious widdle hope would win so easily? Did you really think that was the only plan? That we only know how to play one game? How boring. Why would we go through all this effort without having contingencies in place? Why do you think you’re _here_? What do you think this is? _Hell?_ How quaint, how simple, how very _like_ you, though… I suppose that it _is_ true in a way.”

“I don’t…” He wanted to say he didn’t understand, but… but he was beginning to think he _did_. That everything was… was…

_His hands were shaking._

_Why were his hands shaking?_

_Was he afraid?_

“You can’t hurt a delusion,” he whispered and he could hear the smile in her voice when she next spoke, spreading slow and sinister, the beginnings of despair.

She moved fast, sudden and he felt the air move around him as she did, heard the limping click of her non-broken heel somehow more sinister than it had been there were two. He can feel her breath on his face, her fingers beneath his chin as if she can see him even in the utter black of the hall. As if she wants to watch the truth break him. “Didn’t you know? This isn’t a dream, Nagito. This isn’t even your hell. It’s a nightmare. It’s _his_ nightmare.”

And he did know.

He’d known all along, maybe, deep down beneath it all.

He just hadn’t….

He’d been kneeling at the edge of the water.

The strange water on the beach that had swallowed Hinata whole, eaten him alive and he’d been kneeling in the muck. There had been no reason to reach in that puddle, no reason at all because Hinata was just… and yet he’d done it anyway.

He’d known then.

He’d known the moment he plunged his hand in that grimy water and caught his hand, reeled him in.

He’d let himself forget for a little while afterwards, but he’d known. 

Because from that moment on he’d felt strange, off, there had been moments, so many moments, when he wasn’t himself, when he’d just been a spectator in his own head. And he’d been remembering things, so many things and Hinata had been…

Hinata was….

**_“_ _He tries so hard not to think about that. About the way you said his first name. About how much it turns him on._ _”_ **

**_“I’m just the boy who woke up on the beach and began going through the motions, but even if I’m not special to you, you’re special to me.”_ **

Hinata Hajime. 

“Then what am I?” He whispered, more reflex than intention. He wished he could every word, every touch, every strange, disingenuous comment that had made him so unaccountably angry because he’d thought he was being cruel. But then honesty was often cruel. 

“You’re just a remnant. Just a ghost caught in a machine, clinging to him desperately, like a rat to the hull of a sinking ship. You’re _nothing_. Barely even worth my time or his, but you’re surprisingly resilient.”

“And your breath stinks,” he replied, sitting up, sitting back on his heels, finding the strength to draw away from her at last. “If you touch me again, I’ll rip your arm off. Oh, wait, I already did, didn’t I?”

She laughed.

Pupupupupu…

“Isn’t it a bit late to be finding your spine, Nagito?”

“Maybe, but it's not too late for me to find yours,” he laughed. He wasn’t afraid of the darkness or of his place in it. “I could wear it as a scarf. It would be quite fetching. Though... would you even have one here? If I’m a ghost, what does that make _you_?”

“Why, I’m surprised you hadn’t already figured that out. I’m the machine, little rat, and I’m going to smash your hope to pieces.” 

And then she was gone as if she’d never been there at all.

And the worst thing is that he wasn’t certain she had been.

He feels like himself again and the hall is not so dark as it had seemed before. He can see the tiled floor on which he kneels, the shiny damp puddle where he had thrown up. The vague sinister shape of discarded wheelchairs and gurneys, the walls and doors that bank the corridor. Thunder booms overhead and he can hear the patter of rain against the roof, the windows.

How did he get here?

Had he been here the whole time?

Where was Hinata?

Had he ever been here?

Was everything a lie he’d told himself?

Where the heck were his _pants_?

Had all that been just another delusion? The girl in the hall? Girls? Hinata? The bridge? The beach? The diner? Were any of those things even a little bit real? Had he come here because they were getting worse? More complex? Was he getting worse? Finally breaking down into bits and losing pieces like he’d thought he might?

Had all of it been in his head? Most of it? None of it? Some?

Panic joined with dread in his stomach and he felt like he was going to throw up.

He heard a terrible soft, grating, wheezing horrible sound and he bent over, his stomach seizing and twitching and he realized the sound was coming from him. That he was laughing. That he couldn’t stop.

Was he real? Was anything? Was _Hinata_?

Did he even care if it _was_?

If _he_ was?

Did he care about any of it?

He was shivering and damp and alone and half-naked _again_ and laughing in the dark. He thought he could hear Hinata calling to him from some distant place.

“If you want him so badly, come and get him,” he called back, still laughing as he flopped back to lie on the cold dirty tile floor beneath him.

It was cold.

The thought.

The very _thought_ of Hinata calling his name over and over, sounding so _concerned._ He might never be able to stop laughing.

He was so fucked up.

“Komaeda?" Hinata's beseeching query.

He called back in a voice that cracked and ached: “Come find me and see for yourself, if it matters so much to you.”

What else was there to do?

His hand felt numb.

His arm ached.

So did his heart.

Whatever was left of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This Chapter's Timeline:** Yup, this chapter does indeed occur narratively between the point in the previous chapter where Komaeda disappeared down the hall and didn't return and when Hinata ventures into the darkness after him. Dream time is weird time.
> 
>  **Split Chapter:** I actually had to split this chapter into five shorter chapters by POV as everything was a bit too jarring and long otherwise. Consequently, this means there will be reasonably quick updates for a little while. This is currently the longest one of the bunch. This may or may not change.
> 
>  **Sex in _The Mortal City_ :** For those who have never been on the giving or receiving end - everybody in the universe is pretty much crap giving oral the first go around. Enthusiasm makes up for a lot, especially when your partner is someone like Hinata, but Komaeda just happens to be worse at it than most people for obvious reasons. So, basically, sex (oral or otherwise) from his PoV is often going to be the least sexy thing ever for a number of reasons. Sorry. Also, obviously, Hinata is incredibly awkward. His ramble-a-thon on the beach was a little smoother than what Komaeda actually heard in reality, but not by much. 
> 
> **Song Lyrics:** The song mentioned here is also the final song from the last chapter _Take Me For What I Am_ by Henrey Ford. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading. Sorry this update took so long. Writing multiple stories and doing literally anything else is a bit of a challenge sometimes. Comments and kudos are always very much appreciated though never required.
> 
> Also, just as an FYI, I have a tumblr account now (http://midnight-run-amok.tumblr.com/) where I post updates and whathaveyou.


	8. He and She

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which not everyone can be saved and Nagito's no-good-very-bad day gets a whole hell of a lot worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the warning labels as ever. :)

_“The problem with being nuts, she thought, is that you don't always feel as if you're nuts. Sometimes, in fact, you feel perfectly sane, and there just happens to be a trailer-shaped dragon crouching in the lot next door.”_  
― Christopher Moore, The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove  


 

**DAY THREE**  
-continued-  
**+++**

He wasn’t sure how long he lingered there in that hall, on that floor, staring up at that ceiling while he listened and hoped. Though he was never quite certain what it was he was hoping for. Hope was such a funny thing. He’d been holding onto this idea that it meant something that he’d been able to have this shirt, keep it, that Hinata found him time and again. He’d almost… almost been able to let it go when he’d disappeared for all that time, when he’d been alone, but then he’d come back and he… he didn’t want to give too much of himself to that hope and find that he wasn’t… that it didn’t mean anything. She probably knew that. She seemed to know so much, too much and maybe that was why… why she said those things. Why she made it seem like he was...

What did he _hope_ for? 

Really hope for?

That he was real? That this Hinata, the one who touched him, wanted him, whispered those words in his ear and against his skin who was both so much like the Hinata he remembered and nothing like him all at once. Did he want him to be real? Did he really want everything that had happened to them, between them, to be real? Because it wouldn’t just be the nice things, the gentle things, it would be all the rest too, wouldn't it? All those low, disgusting, terrible moments, Hinata’s fingers in his chest and his hands around his throat and jumping off the bridge and getting off on the beach and thrusting down his throat. All those awful things that had turned him on and made him feel weak, made him _want_. Would Hinata hate him if he knew? Did he hate him already? 

It wouldn’t be any less than he deserved, but….

He needed… wanted…

Foolish things.

It was probably better if it were just his imagination, if all this was just his brain going dark, just dying lights flickering and spitting sparks in an vacant house. If he just faded away to nothing and never had to worry about those things. That would be the best thing to hope for. Oblivion. Maybe it wasn’t the big, beautiful, brilliant hope he’d so often dreamed of, but it could be enough. It was better in some ways than the alternatives.

Because at some point his mind would completely shatter beneath the strain of endless days and doubts and uncertainties, he didn’t think it would take too much more really. He was already cracking and brittle at the edges and it wasn’t as if his brain had ever been in great shape to begin with. So it was probably just a matter of time before he just wouldn’t be able to do this anymore. When he would decide that it didn’t really matter if any of it was real at all and he’d just let despair finally swallow him whole. And maybe it would be a relief. Hope took so much _work_ in this place. It was exhausting. And it wasn’t as if it hadn’t happened before. He’d been part of Ultimate Despair after all, he’d….

_Do you really think you haven'_ _t given in already?_

It could happen again. He thought that maybe it would be simple, it might even be a relief just to let go and sink down into the abyss, to let despair color his desires, twist them until he couldn’t even recognize them. Until he couldn't even recognize himself and then… well, then he’d… he’d…

If he thought about it, really thought about it, he could almost remember how it happened the first time. It was like a tickle at the back of his throat or an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. Little broken shards of memory trying to weasel their way inside him only… that wasn’t quite right, was it? They’d always been there and he was just some grimy, worthless film painted over the top.

And he knew, didn't he? That that voice, those stories in his head that he kept tripping over like moved furniture in a dark, familiar room were _his_ , the truths he’d misplaced when they’d made him, made them all, forget what they had been. Forget their despair.

He didn’t always remember those things, of course. Sometimes he’d no sooner glanced at them than they were forgotten, skimmed for importance before being carelessly discarded. Sometimes he threw them away, retching, his teeth chattering as he clutched his sickened stomach, more often he viewed fragments of what he had been with cool disinterest and it was… better. Better when it didn’t matter so much, when he didn’t care so much, when it was all… distant and unremarkable. It made it easy to forget.

And he did forget while he lay there, staring up at the ceiling. He forgot almost everything it seemed, from time to time, but somehow he never seemed able to forget about Hinata.

It was probably because of the shirt.

It was hard to forget someone whose muddy, bloody, filthy shirt was clinging to you like a second skin. He didn't always care about him, didn't always remember why he was wearing his shirt, sometimes he hoped fervently that he never saw him again, never felt him again, but his name was always there lingering on the tip of his tongue ready to trip off into the air and take flight at any moment.

And sometimes... sometimes all those memories were crisp and clear, nauseatingly so. He didn't understand everything or even most things and he thought that, maybe, the him that he'd been before,the one that had laughed in her face, was hiding things from him. But he couldn't think of any reason why he would. What he might gain from it, what the point would be, but....

_Hate isn't so very different from love when you're alone._

That was probably true. He'd loved his parents, but he'd hated them too. And Hinata... beautiful, regrettably ordinary Hinata had always been complicated. And everything else, everyone else in his life had been… barely worth mentioning.

Even Hope's Peak had been little more than busy and hectic and lonely. 

He remembered being told he was dying during the last days of his first year there.

Really dying, not just sick this time. They didn't give him odds or chances, just an expiration date. Before they’d always painted it with a hopeful brush told him about the treatments that might prolong his life (and his pain, his suffering, but they never told him that part, not really, that was always just left for him to discover, side effects listed in fine print on the side of the bottles and on the hospital intake forms). No, they had always given him a bright, beautiful, dangerous hope that there could be tomorrows, so many tomorrows, and a future that was so different from a grave. But this time they didn’t give him that, they didn’t give him options, just a timeframe. Days, weeks, months and a hurried summary of what it might be like, how bad it might get and that he didn’t have to decide just then, but he’d have to decide soon, _eventually_ , but _soon_ because he wouldn’t be able to… be able to… and he didn’t remember the rest. Just the doctor droning on and on, like the buzzing of blowflies over a corpse and he was sitting on the exam table which was covered in that cheap thin paper that crinkled and ripped whenever he even thought about moving. He wasn’t really certain why he had chosen to sit there. Maybe it was just that there was nowhere else to sit in the nurse’s office and the little man had been very insistent that he should sit down. As if sitting down would cushion the blow or keep him from falling down if that was what he felt like doing. 

It was stupid.

It was all so stupid. 

There was this ridiculous squirrel photo that hung in the nurse’s office on the wall across from the exam table, just over the little doctor’s head and as the man went on and on, he couldn’t stop staring at it. He’d never liked it and he’d spent enough time in the office to be intimately familiar with it. It wasn’t going anywhere, it had been there long before he had arrived and would remain long after he was gone. It just hung there on that otherwise unremarkable wall being strange and out of place and giving the room _character_.

A big, bushy, black-eyed squirrel, clinging to an icy branch, caught in that single moment as it dangled above an unseen abyss, kind of like Schrödinger’s cat, in that it existed forever in a state of both life and death. Would he cling to his branch and survive or would he plummet to an untimely end? Was the tree branch positioned over a cushy bush? A ravine peppered with jagged rocks? There was no way to know. He’d always assumed it climbed back up, clung to life and lived to jump and scamper another day. That seemed the more hopeful end to the story. Maybe not happier, because the squirrel might starve or freeze and die a slow agonizing death in that unforgiving season. Hope was just hope after all and it couldn’t make anything better, it just made things seem better… at least for a while. It couldn’t stave off hunger or heal the sick or the dying. He could hope for a better tomorrow, for a life, but his luck… his luck always meant that his hopes were fulfilled just as often as they were dashed, didn’t it? That was something on which he could always depend. 

Would his luck allow him days? Years? Months? Would he get sicker and sicker, as they said, until he was unable to care for himself at all? Would the illness just hollow him out, make him hungry and vague, but still able to function on his own? Would he want to die in the end? Would he long for it when his body had betrayed him and his mind was barely his own anymore? Barely anything anymore really, if it were so full of holes that he’d forgotten more than he’d ever truly known? Would it hurt? Where was the hope in that? In a life prolonged, in misery delayed, but ultimately inescapable?

He hadn’t realized he was laughing until the doctor said his name and he forced himself to look away from the squirrel on the wall and focus on the man in the neat suit who’d come all this way to talk to him, to tell him those test results and how he could always get a second opinion, but he shouldn’t get his hopes up. He was a valued patient and patron of the hospital because his parents had always donated handsomely to the hospital prior to their passing and he’d never seen the need to stop doing so after when he had so much money to spare. So he had deserved the personal touch, deserved to receive his death sentence,the news of his inevitable demise in the comfort of the nurse's office. To be called out of class and have to go back to it after and smile and pretend everything was fine, that he was fine.

He was so... lucky, wasn't he? 

To have such caring physicians. Who hoped he would consider their hospice program, which they were quite certain would meet his needs adequately. It was a little expensive, but he had money enough for that.

He was very lucky after all. 

He giggled a little, pressing a hand against his mouth to stifle the sound.

Because, _of course_ , it came down to that, didn't it? 

They wouldn’t miss him, but they’d miss his money.

It was an ugly thought, an unkind thought. 

He was filled with nothing but ugly thoughts in that moment.

Of a hospital room no one would visit and a gravesite no one would care for.

Hope’s Peak… would mourn the loss of his talent, maybe, probably, but other than that… other than that…. 

It was supposed to be _different_ here.

_He_ was supposed to be different here. 

“I’ll consider my options carefully,” he promised, because the man was still staring at him like he’d grown a second head. Like he had expectations for how his patients were supposed to act in this situation that Nagito simply wasn’t living up to them. And any other time, he would have cared about that.

Maybe. 

At least he would have wanted to meet those expectations because it was easier, everything was easier, when he met expectations, but he couldn’t think. Couldn’t think of what he was supposed to do and so he just turned and left the little office. Ignored the curious, pitying looks of the office staff and kept walking, walking, walking out of the office and down the empty hall. Putting one foot in front of the other, faster and faster until he was flying down the corridor, his coat trailing behind him as he sprinted down the hall, out of breath already and not caring. Not caring about the way his lungs burned or his muscles ached, or about how his legs felt like they might give out any moment. His body was a disaster after all. It was weak, weak, _weak_ and it was killing him anyway so what was the point of yielding to its protests now. He hit the stairwell door at a run, slamming it open and tripping down the stairs.

Barely registering that there were other people or, more precisely, one other person in it, their feet pounding against the stairs and coming closer and closer as he ran down and the other ran up and then they both took the turn at the third floor landing too fast, slamming into each and there was a flash of wide dark eyes and a sensation like falling and then there was nothing but the black.

He blinked and he was on the floor again, the tile floor of the hospital, exhausted and aching as if he’d run miles when he’d just been kneeling in just the same place for… he wasn’t certain. Hours? Minutes? Days? It was hard to tell. 

He remembered kneeling on other hard tiled floors over the years, dozens, and they were always hell on his knees. His body had always been too weak to enjoy or even gladly tolerate such things.

Still… he knelt there for a long, long time. 

Sometimes he was certain he was awake and that there was nothing but silence broken by the occasional whir and chug of unseen machinery.

More often he wasn’t so sure. 

More often he heard Hinata’s voice calling him, but found he couldn’t bring himself to answer that increasingly desperate call. Too afraid to know the truth, whatever it might be. Other times Hinata’s voice was nothing but an uncertain memory and all he could hear was the uneven limping gait of someone stumping about with a broken heel over and over again, round and round, until he couldn’t tell if it was coming from a particular direction or from everywhere all at once. Sometimes it was just that, ghostly footsteps echoing down the hall. Other times there was a woman’s voice, a girl’s voice, whispering his name over and over in the dark and the sound slithered through his brain with a sound like the rustling tissue paper. The ceiling seemed to flicker and change every time he blinked, the tiles subtly altered. Sometimes the color was a little deeper, sometimes it was speckled with grey or green or purple or pocked with small evenly placed dots and dashes like Morse code. Sometimes the shape was wavering and uncertain, hazy and iridescent like he was looking up at it from the depths of the ocean. The motion made him feel sick… well, sicker, anyway.

It seemed like he’d drowned himself to get away from that voice once before not so very long ago.

Though maybe he’d imagined that too.

Sometimes he thought he could still hear Hinata calling his name, but the sound was distant, distorted and strange. Sometimes he said other things too. Curses maybe? He sounded frustrated, but then that wasn’t new and he seemed so… real when he sounded like that. Even though he’d never really heard Hinata curse on the island… before. So it probably had less to do with the words and more to do with the fact that Hinata had almost always sounded exasperated with him, by him, when they’d been together.

He remembered Hinata’s arm around him as he helped to the hospital when he’d had the Despair disease. Not well. Most of that time had a strange surreal, dreamlike quality to it that made it seem even less real than everything that had happened since. So in thinking about it he wasn’t ever quite sure how much of it was real and how much was the fever. He just had… scraps. Moments and fragments of lucid time bundled with sense memories of cool touches and he was pretty sure he’d been naked a couple of times and he wouldn’t have been surprised to find out he’d touched himself at least once. He had this weird image in his head of Mikan staring at him looking awkward and out of place in the doorway of his hospital room like she couldn’t decide if she was coming or going. 

There were a lot of little things like that, little snapshots of sensation or snippets of time. Hinata’s hand in his hair, Hinata helping him out of the restaurant, supporting his weight, the almost unbearable touch of Hinata’s fingers against his bare side, against the sweaty skin under his shirt. How, in the moment, it had seemed terribly funny that nothing he wanted to say had seemed to come out right. It had probably been for the best. There was no telling what he would have said if he’d been able. All those little touches, those fond little moments of worry and concern that had made him feel positively giddy whether they’d come from her or him.

No one else had ever…. 

Not that it mattered, really. He’d probably imagined it all anyway, everything. Hinata’s nightmare, his delusion, what did any of that matter anyway? He laughed and the sound echoed as he opened his eyes….

When had he closed them?

Had he fallen asleep? 

He sat up, slowly, painfully and found he wasn’t lying in the long hall anymore, if he ever had been there in the first place. He might have always been here. It made more sense after all. More sense that everything, that Hinata, had just been a dream he had while lying in the lobby of the island’s hospital. The curling neon script on the wall illuminated the space with pale red light and it was… just as he remembered it complete with that obnoxious poster and the monitor and radio they’d left behind here after Tsumiki’s trial.

The air was warm, but he still shivered, pulling his bare knees to his chest. His legs were covered in gooseflesh, the familiar bloody wounds in his thighs puckered around the edges. He exhaled, surprised when his breath blew out white as smoke. The tile, the air all seemed warm… maybe he was running a fever? No, that was… he tried to drag a hand through his hair, but the numb digits merely skated across the surface.

The floor gleamed, glossy and cast red by that soft neon glow, the shadows that crisscrossed it were long and deep.

He was trembling. 

Why was he trembling?

Was he afraid? He didn’t… 

He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t like this place, but… but if he was here… if he was here he could just… he could just _leave_. He could hear the thunder crashing outside, the rain pounding down against the ceiling overhead. He could see it pelting the windows and doors as if the rain were coming from every direction at once.

No, he didn’t have to stay here.

He could just _leave_. 

He could leave and….

And…. 

Who was he even kidding?

It didn’t matter what was real, what wasn’t. He could lie to himself and pretend he would go somewhere else, anywhere else, but he wouldn’t. No, he’d just run back to the diner, like a lovesick child, clinging to the hope that he would be there. That if he went back he’d find him or at least some sign that he’d been there. That he would cling to him, whatever he was… whatever they were… until the end.

“He doesn’t even like you, you know,” a girl’s voice murmured, breath stirring his hair and the words were familiar, just like the voice. He’d said them to her once when he’d been tied up, imprisoned in the room where Togami had been killed. They’d taken turns bringing him food, but he didn’t eat much of it, even when whoever brought it deigned to feed it to him. He had no appetite, his mind was too… unsettled, spinning in a dozen different directions at once, a swirling vortex of thoughts and ideas and half-formed plans and hopes. 

He shivered, fingers of his good hand scrambling fruitlessly against the tile. He had to get up. He had to go. He couldn’t stay here. This place was… this was a _bad_ place. 

“It was just _s-sex_ , Mister Komaeda. You don’t have to _like_ someone to want to have _sex_ with them, I thought _everyone_ knew that.” Fingers thread their way through his hair and he whimpered, closing his eyes tight as if he could wish the touch away.

“Stop it,” he rasped. “You can’t touch me. You’re not real. None of this is real. It’s just… it’s not real.” 

“That’s true. None of this is real at all, but I can still touch you. Still care for you. Y-You’ve been very ill, Mister Komaeda. You should rest. Come with me, I’ll help you back to bed.”

“No!” 

Panic shot through him like a bullet bringing adrenaline with it and he shoved himself forward, away from that phantom touch with a sob, scrambling across the floor towards the door, off-balance and unsteady, his legs tingling and riddled with pins and needles. He managed to make it off his knees, onto bare, painful, uncertain feet, swaying and sweating before he’d taken a single step. What was wrong with him? What was…? 

He stumbled into the door, snatching at the handle, shoving at it. The door rattled, but didn’t open, didn’t budge. He shoved it again, but the result was just the same. Behind him he heard the soft uneven clatter of heels against the tile and a girl’s soft, nervous laughter, tinged with despair.

“T-That isn’t an exit, Mister Komaeda. There are no exits here. Just doors, doors and more doors.”

He couldn’t look away from the door, couldn’t bring himself to let go of the handle. This was the way out. It had to be. He wasn’t trapped here. He _wasn_ _’_ _t_. He was just… he was just doing it wrong that was all. “Stop it,” he managed, swallowing hard and giving the door another rattle. “You’re not here, you’re not real, I’m…”

“Dreaming? Hm? Do you really think so?” She asked, her hand smoothing up the length of his spine, skating across the clinging fabric of his borrowed shirt. It might have been a comforting gesture in other circumstances, from other hands, but now it just made him lurch closer to the door, trying to escape the unwanted touch. “Why are fighting the truth so hard? Why bother? Why hold onto this?” He closed his eyes tight again as he felt the pressure of fingertips pressing light and certain against the buttons of his borrowed shirt. “He can’t save you. He can’t even save himself. So, what does it matter? What does any of it matter?”

And it was finally too much, too much and he lashed out, slapping at the feel of those fingers poised like insects on his chest. 

She yelped as his hand made contact, knocking her hand aside and all the air seemed to vanish from the room. His fingers stung where they’d made contact and there was a low, terrible keening noise that seemed to fill the room and his eyes were open, wide and unfocused. And she was laughing again, a hysterical twitter of sound, as she danced back and away from him as if he’d just done something wonderful and interesting and unexpected. He wasn’t certain that he’d ever heard her laugh when she was on the island, before her trial… before her execution.

It was a grating, unpleasant sound, high and airy and false.

Nagito turned slowly, dread making his limbs heavy and reluctant, his heart pounded loud in his ears like the marching beat of a drum. 

She looked…

Her hair was shorter, dark and ragged and dirty, hanging in lank, heavy strips around her manic, hollow-eyed face. Everything about her seemed to sag beneath some terrible weight even when she was laughing and she looked… older somehow. The fingers of his good hand, scrambled frantically over the door at his back, searching for… something, anything… as if maybe there was simply some hidden latch or button he’d neglected to flip or push that would release him from this place. 

Let him escape the reality of _her_.

She was wearing the same clothes she had been before, apron and all, but her legs and arms were covered with damp, ragged bandages that were sagging just a bit beneath the weight to reveal that the skin beneath was patchy and red, covered with burns and bruises. But it was her shoes… her feet he couldn’t stop staring at.

She’d always worn such _sensible_ shoes. 

That’s what he remembered most about her from their time on the island together, he wasn’t sure why, but he remembered her shoes very specifically. Remembered them maybe because they made him uncomfortable because they looked like the shoes all his nurses had worn. Sensible, comfortable, good for long hours spent on her feet. 

So seeing her in those tall black boots filled him with a familiar nameless horror, brought a sob to his lips though he couldn’t have said why exactly that was the case. Except, perhaps, because they looked so strange and wrong on her. Or because one of the delicate black heels had broken at some point so when she moved, when she walked towards him or twirled clumsily away, it was with an unsteady limping gait.

He remembered hearing that heel break. 

His breath rattled like chains in his chest.

She smiled at him, but it wasn’t her smile… not exactly. There was a confidence there that he didn’t understand, that looked foreign on her features. “So, are you ready to give up yet? Or do you want to play some more?” 

There was no thought, no hesitation, just instinct.

He bolted for the door that lead into the hospital proper, bare feet slapping against the tiles as he slammed into swinging doors that somehow gave much more easily than he expected. He was too slow, his balance shot, his legs still unsteady and trembling so the impact and momentum sent him careening into the wall on the other side; there was a burst of agony in his side as he slammed into the door of the first exam room, the doorknob hard and unforgiving as it bruised his side. He managed to swallow back the scream that threatened, the pain was molten, red hot and terrible, but he needed to go, to _move_. She hadn’t made any move to stop him, but he could hear her singsong voice calling out to him as he ran down the hall that was suddenly much, much longer than it should have been. 

“Hide and seek it is then, Mister Komaeda! One, two, three, four….”

**+++**

In retrospect, Hajime could admit that just deciding to go traipsing off down the nightmare mystery hall of doom with just a pack of matches and some obviously ill-advised good intentions had been a really _stupid_ idea.

If he had been so dead-set on playing hero he should have gone and found another flashlight, maybe something to use as a weapon in case there was something more than Komaeda waiting for him in the dark. Hell, even just taking the time to bandage up his own blood-covered feet so he wasn’t tripping and slipping all over the place would have made a big difference. Or he could have, at the very least, taken a few seconds to think it through, put something together that actually resembled a plan, instead of just running off to save someone who might not even want to be saved. 

But had he?

No.

No, he had not.

Instead, he’d let that panicked feeling in his gut drive him to action and he’d gone gallivanting off into the dark without a single thought in his head outside of the need to get to Komaeda before… before… what?

What the hell had he thought would happen? 

Sure, he’d decided to just go with the flow. To just live in the moment or whatever stupid nonsense it was that had that had left him feeling lighter, better as they left the beach house, but… but then Komaeda had pulled the emotional equivalent of a dine and dash and he’d been left kneeling on the floor in an empty hall by the boy who’d just….

What the fuck was _wrong_ with him? 

Why did he keep doing this to himself?

Why was he chasing after him like this? 

It was just a matter of survival, wasn’t it?

He had to believe that this all meant… something. 

Maybe he should have just let him go, left him alone, but…. 

He’d just sounded so….

Komaeda’s stupid jukebox music had still been echoing all around him singing words he didn’t understand to melodies he didn’t know. His muscles had still been shaky and weak in the aftermath of what they’d done together, his skin was still fresh with the memory of Komaeda’s stupid mouth and all he’d been able to think about was getting to him. 

He had to get to him, to find him, to help him even though he wasn’t sure how or even that he could. He knew almost nothing about Komaeda and even the little he did know was highly suspect. Some of it lies Komaeda had told him, others were lies he suspected Komaeda had told himself. There might be truths in there as well, but… he didn’t and couldn’t trust that he’d be able to tell one from the other.

He wasn’t even altogether sure why exactly in seemed so urgent, so vital, that he act now, move now, like he was running up against some unseen countdown either for the dream or for Komaeda, but there was something… something inside him like dread and panic and horror all mixed together and he couldn’t shake it. It made him put one foot in front of the other over and over again even after all the matches were gone and Komaeda eventually stopped answering him altogether and there was only the dark and the sound of his own voice unanswered. 

There was just… just something about the way he’d said those words, something about the way Komaeda’s laugh had carried through the darkness had made his stomach turn, had made him feel nauseous. And, try at he might, he’d been unable to dismiss the thought that he wouldn’t be able to get to him soon enough, that he never should have let him out of his sight in the first place, that this entire place was a trap, set and baited, and that if he didn’t move quickly there wouldn’t be anything left to save.

And it would _matter_. 

And, somehow, it would be his _fault_.

That he would lose something he hadn’t even really had and it would be too late for him as well.

When had Komaeda become so vital, so important to him?

The thought that he was made him feel a little sick.

Because his Komaeda might never wake up and he knew that, he _knew_ that, even if he didn’t like to think about it. Hell, Komaeda being here with him like this was probably all just… just a way of dealing with that. With those missed opportunities and mourning and hope and pain all caught up and twisted into… this, but….

But.

Even knowing that, maybe especially knowing that, he couldn’t just… let him go, let him be swallowed up by the darkness without at least trying to save him, could he? Sure it was… stupid, but… he had to _try_.

So he’d gone into the dark to find him. 

Because even if the Komaeda here were nothing more than a figment of his imagination, just a manifestation of his confusion, his guilt, of all his conflicting wants and needs, or even just a sign that he was slowly going mad, that he could never be the person they all wanted him to be, _needed_ him to be.

He wanted to think it was for him. That he was shuffling down this hall for Komaeda, but he couldn’t help wondering if maybe it was just because he… _needed_ this. Needed to know that he… that he _could_ do this, _would_ do this, that he was willing to risk himself for him, for them. That he was harboring some terrible need to prove to himself that he wasn’t… Izuru. Not where it counted. That whatever he was now, it wasn’t that, that he could risk himself for someone… for this shattered reflection of Komaeda, who was beautiful and confusing and broken but… _his_ in some vital way he still needed time to figure out, to understand. 

So, yeah, at the end of the day he was probably being a selfish, amoral ass and this was all about him because that’s what dreams were, really. All his most terrible needs and wants and fears and insecurities on display and come out to play so he could work through them. It was really no big wonder Komaeda had run off the first chance he’d gotten. He’d always suspected that Komaeda was smarter than he was, no big surprise this version was just the same.

Of course, when he’d started down the hall, into the dark, all those...

Had it been hours ago? Minutes? Days? Time was so strange here and in the dark he had no way to guess at or gauge its passing. All he had to measure with was the ache in his muscles and the pain in his feet and neither did more for him than tell him it had been a long time, too long a time. 

He wasn’t sure _what_ he’d expected really, or even whether he’d actually had any true expectations at all besides a vague suspicion that bad things would happen when he first flounced off down this hall. Still, after everything that had happened since the dream began… he would never have expected that there would just be… _nothing_.

And yet nothing was exactly what he’d gotten. 

Nothing, nothing and more _nothing_.

No Komaeda, no rotting Junko limbs, no eldritch horrors, no man-eating puddles, no scary clowns or poisonous gas or zombies rising from graves or just… anything at all except that… darkness. Minutes or hours or days of just endless, kind of boring, uninterrupted darkness and the despair that was beginning to bubble within him from traversing it as the hope that he would find Komaeda or even just wake up at some point began to dim. 

All he knew, all he really knew, was that the hall was long and dark and he was beginning to wonder if there was any end to it at all. If he was lost. His feet and legs were sore, his knees were tender and bruised from all the times he’d fallen and his fingers hurt, scorched and blistered from where he’d he let match after match burn down to the quick before dropping the smoking remains of and lighting a new one to replace it. The matches hadn’t lasted near long enough and now he was working his way down the hall by feel. He tripped often, over his own aching, dirty, still no-doubt blood-covered feet, as well as other things. Over unseen obstacles that would fall with a clatter and then always seem to vanish immediately as if he’d only been tripping over the memory of objects rather than the objects themselves. Whenever he caught himself, against the wall or on the cold, hard tile floor, he scrapped his fingertips, further punishing the already abused and mistreated flesh so they were raw and throbbing.

He hadn’t called out to Komaeda in a while because as some point Komaeda had stopped answering him with anything but the occasional laugh. And that laugh was worse and worse each time he heard it, creaking and hoarse and subtly terrifying as if every time he heard his name it made everything worse. Which was a stupid thought, but one he couldn’t quite shake and so he’d stopped calling out to him altogether once even that laughter had stopped.  

How the fuck _long_ was this stupid hallway anyway?

How far could Komaeda have even really gotten? 

Until the last of the matches had burned out he’d at least been able to follow the bloody footprints he’d left behind. Now he was working off memory and the hope that the hallway was straight or that Komaeda hadn’t impulsively darted off down some side corridor or into some room that he couldn’t see at least. 

Every once in a while some stupid, unhelpful voice in his head weighed in on how idiotic and kind of completely nuts he was for chasing a figment of his imagination down an equally imaginary corridor in the dark for an inestimable period of time. Sometimes that voice sounded like reason, like his own good sense trying to talk him out of bad decision making, and sometimes it sounded a lot like _her_ or maybe Monokuma, but- most often- it sounded like Komaeda. 

“Why would someone like Hinata bother to spend the time to find someone like me? Especially when he knows that it isn’t even _really_ me?” Komaeda’s voice inquired, soft and mocking. “You should probably seek professional help about these delusions of yours.”

“Shut up, I don’t want to hear that from _you_ ,” Hajime grumbled, stumbling, his fingers scrapping against the wall, barely managing to keep himself upright.

“Don’t you though? I’m just you, after all, aren’t I? Maybe I’m the last bastion of your fragile sanity, like the ghost of lame Hinata's past, come to advise you that your grip on reality is slipping, that if you keep this up you’ll lose it completely,” Komaeda replied, his voice unusually harsh. The tones he’d used in those final days that screamed that he was an unworthy, unwanted disappointment, that he had never been anything or anyone special at all.

Not to him, not to anyone. 

“And you _know_ what that _means_ ,” he continued in a singsong voice that sounded unnatural and weird in Komaeda’s quiet rasping tones.

“Shut up,” he commented again, irritated. 

Not that he cared about Komaeda’s opinion of him.

Not then and not now. 

Wanting to be close to him, to touch him, hadn’t made him blind to Komaeda’s many, many, _many_ character flaws.

He’d known that Komaeda was messed up. He’d seen it time and again in a hundred different ways. The way he’d been in the game, the way he’d been in these dreams, the way they’d been with each other. They were both so fucked up. How could they be anything but awful for each other? 

It was stupid, really. He was stupid. Or maybe that little voice that sounded a like Komaeda was right and he was kind of going a little crazy after all. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have plenty of motivation to take a flying leap off the sanity pier even without all this.

“I suppose nothing says ‘last train to crazy town’ quite like being able to say that I spent all night wandering around in the dark looking for _you_ ,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes though there was no one around to appreciate the gesture and, even if there were, they wouldn’t have been able to see it anyway. 

Only silence greeted the comment, which was fair enough, he supposed.

Hajime pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle the strange, choking feeling of inappropriate laughter, pausing and leaning against the wall and trying to remember how to breathe. The dark was… was difficult. He’d been okay in the diner, okay when he was with Komaeda there and even before in the beach house and out on the sand in the rain, because there had been something to do, someone else to focus on, but here in the dark… there was only himself. Himself and the tingling feeling that lingered everywhere Komaeda’s mouth had touched, the pain of all those little cuts on his feet that now seemed twice as big and twice as painful as they’d been when he began. Plus, he was having difficulties keeping his balance and his legs still felt shaky and weak. Everything seemed… larger and more immediate in the dark and most of the time it seemed like he was careening wildly down a rabbit hole, knowing that at any moment he might crash through a glass ceiling and spin out into whatever void lay beyond, helpless and hopeless and terribly lost and completely alone. 

He took a deep breath, blew it out, and then another and another.

It didn't really help.

He forced himself to take another step and then another and another. 

It was so dark here.

It was so dark and he didn’t want to be alone here.

He didn’t want to be alone.

There was a splash in the darkness as he eased forward along the wall and his reluctant toes sloshed out into cold water. His heart was in this throat again, thundering out a frantic beat as his fingers curled against the smooth wall for purchase he knew he wouldn't find. He could hear a faucet running somewhere far away, the shushing, rushing sound like a cascade of water pouring heavy and fast as if from a broken spigot. The water lapped at his toes hungrily and he shivered, remembering the feel of that fleshy hand around his ankle. If it.. no... if _she_ found him again, reached for him again and caught him... he shuddered. Komaeda had saved him then. Had caught his hand and dragged him to safety. There was no Komaeda to save him now, but…

He couldn’t go back.

If he turned and fled, if he turned back now, he’d never find him again and, even if he did, he wouldn’t _deserve_ to. Nothing would ever be okay, because _he_ would never be okay, because he’d be a coward who abandoned someone he cared about because he was afraid. Even if he was the only one who ever knew… he’d still know that all he ever deserved to be was alone.

“Komaeda?” He whispered, into the dark and the name seemed to echo around him, mocking him as it bounced off the walls. He shivered, wrapping unsteady arms around his bare chest, suddenly terribly aware of the fact that he was half-naked. He was trembling though he wasn't certain whether it was the chill of the water or the air that raised prickles on his suddenly clammy skin. His nipples were hard and aching and painful and he shivered again and clenched his teeth when the muscles in his jaw jerked and seized as if to chatter as a rush of that cool air blew soft and sinister across the back of his neck.

The water lapped around his heel almost playfully, beckoning and coaxing and daring him to come in, to see what lay beneath the surface. It seemed warmer than it had been, but that might have just been because the air in the corridor seemed cooler. He closed his eyes and took a tentative step further into the water.

He was pretty sure that pathetic whimpering sound was coming from him, which he’d probably have found embarrassing if he weren’t so….

He didn't _want_ to be here.

He didn't _want_ to do this.

He just... god, he just wanted to go _back_.

Back to that first day, to that voice calling him out of the darkness, to that first surreal moment of opening his eyes on the beach to find that face staring down at him. Or maybe to after that, to the night before the party, before everything went from bad to worse, to the night when they’d sat together beside the pool, dangled their feet in the water and just… talked. Like two normal people getting to know each other and no one else had been around all already in bed or something maybe, he wasn’t sure. It had been dark, but there had been plenty of light as the moon always seemed big and mostly full and bright enough to light up the whole world. The crickets had been loud and the pool’s water circulation thing kept making this weird sucking, plastic clanking noise. They’d taken off their shoes and socks and rolled up their pant legs enough that they could dangle their feet in the water which was kind of lukewarm, but still pleasantly cool compared to the night around them. It had still been really hot and kind of sticky even though it was late, close to curfew, but they’d been sitting close together anyway like it didn’t matter than they were both so sweaty their shirts were stuck to their skin. 

Komaeda always seemed to do that, to press in closer to him than he might have to anyone else, like he didn’t understand the idea of personal space or didn’t care, like he couldn't ever get close enough. Later he'd found it disconcerting and a little creepy, but then, before, he'd liked it, he'd liked _him_. The warmth of his skin and the way his laughter- always quiet like he was worried about offending someone by being too loud- had made him feel. How that nice, pretty boy had made him feel special and interesting and like it wasn’t such a bad thing that he couldn’t remember what his talent was because he had someone to help him figure it out, someone who just… liked him.

It had been… nice, really nice.

Afterwards, he’d just wanted to forget about it, forget that he’d ever felt that way, forget how badly he’d misjudged him, but now… it was easier to look back and remember those feelings as he stood in the dark, easing into that cool, unseen water. To remember that there had been a time, brief as it was, when his feelings about Komaeda had been clear and uncomplicated and painfully obvious.

To remember how Komaeda had taken off his coat and folded it up beside him, a little carelessly so that one long sleeve had fallen down to trail in the water as they'd talked, feet kicking back and forth beneath the surface. Their bare arms had brushed sometimes when one or the other leaned just a little too close and he’d kept his hands  balled up in fists against his thighs because he kept looking over at Komaeda’s hand sprawled between them at the edge of the concrete, loosely gripping the edge like he was trying to hold on to something. He kept looking at it and he kept thinking about what might happen if he slid his hand over Komaeda’s, if he just let his hand slip down between them and laced their fingers together against the edge. Because he wanted to, but it had seemed like such a huge and scary thing to touch someone like that. To touch another boy like that, especially… _especially_ Komaeda who he really liked spending time with. In the end he hadn’t done it, because he was scared of what might happen, or what might not, and before he’d managed to summon up the courage, Komaeda had been thanking him for spending time with him and pushing himself up, pool water splashing against his pants in drips and drops as he picked up his jacket and climbed to his feet.

He’d snagged his shoes from the lounge chair on which he’d left them and then offered him a hand up and he’d taken it even though he hadn’t really needed the help. 

His mouth had been so dry and he’d been so nervous and he’d felt so stupid, because Komaeda had just smiled at him, bright and warm, and squeezed his hand once before releasing it. “I’m really glad I met you, Hinata. Good night.”

“Um, yeah, good night,” he'd managed to mumble in return as he watched him turn to go, his jacket and shoes dangling carelessly from one hand. 

He’d never thought, even after, to wonder why they hadn’t just walked back to their rooms together. Why he’d lingered by the pool staring after him like an idiot instead.

He wished he could go back.

He should have kissed him then, by the pool, just reached up and caught a hand in his stupid, fluffy hair and kissed him until neither of them could _breathe_. Until Komaeda knew, until he _understood_ , that he... that they....

But he couldn't and he wasn’t even sure if it would have changed anything if he _had_. 

What was done was done and Komaeda was lying in a pod and beyond help, beyond reach and that... that was why he was really here, why he’d chased after him, why he was standing in the dark while the water swirled and danced around his feet, getting rougher, choppier, spraying droplets high across his borrowed pants, soaking the material, the hem, making it cling to him, wet and heavy and uncomfortable and oddly reassuring as he inched forward. He was here because there was nothing he could do for that Komaeda, for the real Komaeda who wasn’t his, but maybe could have been and probably never would be. He couldn’t help him or save him or do anything at all for him but wait and hope. But he could help this one and that... that at least was something. He whispered his name again and this time there was no taunting echo, but there wasn't anything like an answer either. Nothing but the sound of rushing water and the growing unease it brought him.

All he had was the hope that he was there. 

It was enough.

He made his way forward, step by tremulous, uncertain step one arm still wrapped protectively across his chest while he ran the other over the wall to help with his balance. The water was cold again and almost slimy, greasy and thick as oil as it slid over his hands, his arms and around the bare skin of his waist and stomach as it rose ever higher or he crept ever deeper, it was impossible to tell which for certain or whether it was a combination of both. His borrowed pants were already soaked through and clinging, chafing, painful and rough where the water was smooth and sinuous as a lover’s caress. Like fingers moving across him, dipping and teasing and rubbing and… 

“No!”

_No_. 

Hajime made a soft wounded sound, his eyes opening wide in the darkness his head swiveling back and forth as he lashed out, slapping his hands across the surface of the water and finding nothing there more solid than water. Nothing even as he felt fingers slide low across his belly, broken, ragged nails tracing allow the waist of his borrowed pants, both familiar and strange, begging a permission he had no desire to give. He jolted and panicked and thrashed, splashing water about and almost falling, desperate for something real, something he could fight, some way to avoid the touch that remained, undeterred, inescapable as a memory.

“Stop it,” he yelped and the sound came back to him, echoed around him, mocking and high-pitched as the water reached his chest and rose ever higher as unseen, slippery fingers tweaked his nipples painfully.

_Stop it. Stop it. Stop it._

Slimy fingers were slippery around his ankles, caressing over and between his toes, tripping up his spine, rubbing rough and unpleasant over the crotch of his borrowed pants, tracing the form of his cock beneath, which made him gag and choke and try to move faster, but the water was heavy and ever step seemed to take years. Those fingers found his bare stomach next, digging and scrapping along the inside of his belly button, he plunged a hand into the water, slapping at the skin, covering the recess, but the feeling remained, a prickly, painful, piercing sensation as if something were drilling through the flesh, penetrating the surface and threading a sharp tendril of sensation into him, through him, scrapping up against the very heart of him.

He was pretty sure he screamed.

He definitely panicked again, thrashing and beating frantically at the water and his stomach both as he tried to run through the heavy, sloshing weight of the water that filled the corridor around him, desperate to move, to get out and away. And still those fingers, those hands were digging about within him, searching, wiggling around in places where fingers were never meant to be.  
  
He cursed quietly, frustrated and sickened because he couldn’t stop something he couldn’t touch. He gagged, the taste of bile thick and burning in his throat. His cheeks were wet with splashed water or tears, he wasn’t sure, but his eyes were stinging and burning as he struggled forward, clutching compulsively at his stomach with one hand while the other dug through the water as if that might help him move further, faster, something, _anything_.

It was almost a surprise when he emerged from the water, all at once, stumbling and slipping on the smooth, slick floor. He spilling forward with a surprised cry as the resistance of the reluctantly yielding water suddenly vanished and crashed to the floor face first. Unable to pull his hands up to cushion the fall in time, he hit the ground with a wet, meaty smack as agony slammed through him, his teeth clanking and grinding together, cutting into his cheek. The taste of blood flooded his mouth as the impact rang through his head and the black was washed with red spots and searing pain. He coughed, splattering blood and spit across the floor, but he couldn’t even seem to find breath enough to cry out so he lay there like a landed fish, gasping and twitching on the cold tiles. His feet were still in the water, which licked and sucked at his toes, gentle and teasing and horrifying as he struggled to gather himself enough to pull his legs up, to free himself from that touch. It seemed to take a long time, too long, but he managed, retching weakly, the feel of that touch fading as he pulled his toes into the stale, open air.

It seemed like he laid there for a long, long time, shivering and panting until, eventually, a sob, choked and dry, broke from his throat as he trembled and shook in the dark.

Everything hurt. 

Had things hurt like this in dreams he’d had in the past? He hadn’t really… he hadn’t really had any on the island, not really, just fragments of memories of a life he couldn’t remember. A life he maybe hadn’t really wanted to remember even then, even before he really knew what to expect. And before… he wasn’t certain. Nothing from before was very clear and the more he tried to focus on those faded memories the less distinct they became. Maybe it had always been like this for him. Maybe this was just what dreams were. The… nicer things had felt real enough, so he supposed it made sense that the painful ones would as well.

He groaned, flopping over onto his back with effort and yanking his knees up so that his feet were further up and away from where the water had been. His chest and stomach still felt raw, open and vulnerable even though the skin felt solid enough beneath his fingers. 

It didn't make him feel any better.

Nothing did until he heard quiet laughter, soft and near and mad and familiar and he found himself chuckling along as if they were sharing a joke neither of them could remember the punchline for. 

"Komaeda?" He croaked when he could speak and his voice was the voice of a stranger, hoarse and rough and unfamiliar.

"Hinata?" The word was a whisper and barely even that, but it was close and familiar and it was _him_ and that was all that mattered. 

"You okay?" He asked even though he knew the answer.

Another soft, rasping laugh filled the air before turning almost immediately into a hacking cough. "Wonderful," he managed between bursts. "You?" 

"Yeah, I'm really great," Hajime breathed, huffing a laugh of his own. "I really hate this place."

"Yeah, me too. I'm so tired of hospitals. Seems like I live in the revolving door, never quite managing to leave before I’m back all over again. Are you in my head?"

"Don’t be stupid, I’m right here.”

“I don’t see you. Are you sure you’re not just in my head?”

“Quit it. It’s dark as hell so there’s nothing to see and why would I _joke_ about something like that?” 

“It isn’t dark where I am or at least not that dark anyway. Are you in the conference room? That’s a terrible hiding place,” Komaeda replied and Hajime felt his stomach sink, hope taking a fatal blow as his fingers brushed up against the smooth, cool surface of the wall and after a moment met the cold metal of a grate.

“Dammit,” he whispered, because if he started screaming again now he had a feeling he’d never stop. He should be there with him, but he wasn’t. He _wasn_ _’_ _t_. He dug his fingers in and squeezed the metal, rattling it. “No, I’m… I think I’m in the hall, maybe? I don’t know. I don’t know if things are laid out the same here. I just… I don’t know.” 

“Hinata, you sound so _sad_ ,” Komaeda murmured and he could almost feel his breath against his face, see the face he would make, wondering and wide-eyed. “I’d have thought you’d be glad to be rid of someone like me. I only ever cause you trouble.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he rasped and he really, really didn’t want to cry, but he was so tired of this. He gave the grate another shake and another and another until it came loose in his hands and he pulled it free from the cheap plaster, tossing it aside with a clatter and a splash as it landed in the water he’d just left. He plunged his arm into the opening, reaching into the darkness until he couldn’t reach any further, his shoulder wedged against the little opening, his fingertips brushing a grate.

He felt warm, almost hot, fingertips brush against his own through the sharp metal slates and pressed his shoulder in harder against the opening, trying to reach further to penetrate the vent on the other side, to reach him, to touch more of him as if doing so would mean… something, anything.

“Hey Hinata,” Komaeda sounded strange and breathless and as desperate and exhausted as he felt, he could hear him scrambling, clawing at the grate, the touch vanishing for moments at a time. “I’m really glad I got to see you.”

“Then you shouldn’t have taken off like that,” he grumbled, trying to ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach. 

“I didn’t care the ambiance,” Komaeda sighed, but he could hear the smile in his words. “I liked the way you tasted though. Is it always that sour? Is everyone’s like that?”

Every time.

Every single time he thought he had a handle on what he felt for Komaeda he’d say something or do something like that. Something that made him remember why he wanted to throw things at him sometimes, most times. 

Possibly while kissing him, just as a time saving measure.

“How the heck would I know?” He grumbled, his face felt too hot and he poked at Komaeda’s fingers through the grate irritably. “The only dick I’ve ever had in my mouth was yours.” 

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” he hesitated frowning and sighed. “Shit, I don't know. Probably. At least I think so. I still don’t really remember everything, you know. Look, can you… I don’t know, go look out in the hall or something, open the door? Maybe I’ll be able to see you?” 

“That’s probably not a good idea,” Komaeda replied his voice quieting a little. “I can hear her stumping around out there. I think she forgot the doors have locks so she seems a little mad about it. Can’t you hear her? She's really loud.”

“Her? Who her? You mean Enoshima?”

That was really the very last thing he needed which, of course, meant that that was almost certainly who was going to show up and put one of those big black boots in his ribs.

“Huh? What? No, not… who’s Enoshima?” He asked, sounding confused and distracted and Hajime groaned, banging his head against the floor.

“Come _on_ , Komaeda. Okay, can you at least tell me what wall I’m at so I can try and get around to the other side?”

“Wall? How would I know?” And again he sounded confused, but something… something about how he said it made him feel sick and terribly aware of the fingertips that had been pressing against his.

The vent was suddenly pulled free with a snap and a metallic pop and clatter and then warm fingers slipped through, wrapping around his and they were… 

They were _wrong_. 

He… he hadn’t been able to tell when it was just fingertips, even though it should have been obvious from the first touch. Komaeda’s hands had always been cold here, but these… these hands weren’t the least bit cold. They weren’t even cool or lukewarm. If anything they were hot, too hot, burning like brands against the back of his hand as they wrapped and twisted fingers around him.

He jerked his hand back as nails dragged across the surface of his skin, rupturing the skin causing it to rip and burst like overripe fruit. He screamed, jerking his hand away as blood spilled across it. He choked back a scream. 

Komaeda’s voice, which was growing more and more frantic, called his name across whatever empty space divided them, but was drowned out soon enough by the sound of her laughter. He shoved against the wall with his free hand and his bare feet finally managing to snatch his hand free, the nails ripping across the back of his hand and palm as he did.

“Ah, you’re hurting my feelings, Ha-ji-me. Don't you want to hold my hand?” 

“Go to hell,” he hissed, clutching his bloody, aching hand against his chest as he scooted back further away from the wall. He was such a fucking idiot. Of _course_ it wasn’t that easy, of course it wasn’t.

He was panting and bleeding and she just kept laughing, the same terrible laugh that stupid bear had had.

How he _hated_ that sound, hated her.

“Give him back,” he whispered, knowing before the words even left his lips what kind of reaction he’d receive. 

And she didn’t disappoint. That laughter was everywhere, all around him.

And then it wasn’t. It just dropped off like a record cutting out. 

“Why him? Why does he matter so much to you? I would have thought you’d be glad to be rid of him. And yet here you are,” she commented, her voice dreary and morose. “I was really hoping you’d come for her, but it wasn’t her, was it? It was him, it really bums me out.”

“I don’t even know what you’re _talking_ about,” he murmured distractedly, as he tucked his wounded hand against his side as blood continued to drip from the wounds she’d made, dribbling down to stripe the already soaked material of his pants. He wished he had something to wrap around it, but there was nothing so he just pressed it against his side and struggled to his feet. 

He needed to go, to move. He just… wasn’t sure where to go or how he was supposed to get to the damn hospital from here. Dreams didn’t make any kind of sense and obviously hoping and wishing wasn’t going to get the job done or he’d already be there with him rather than here in the dark with her.

“Poor silly, pitiful normal Hajime. Do you think you’re in love him? Do you think he loves you? That someone like him is even capable of that? That you are?” Her voice seemed to follow him as he stumbled down the hall, away from the grate, from her grasping hand and laughing voice, away from the water, because he wasn’t sure what else to do.

And she just kept talking and talking and talking, her ever-changing voice like sandpaper rubbing against his nerves.

“You don’t even know him. You don’t know anything about him. He isn’t a wounded bird, you know. You can’t set his wing and expect him to heal and fly again. He’s more like a lame horse living on borrowed time. It would be kinder to put him out of his misery, to leave him to his fate.” Her voice seemed… strange, different, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was that made it so past the throbbing pain in his hand and his head and the exhaustion that was dragging him down like chains piled over his shoulders and tangled around his clumsy, leaden legs.

He laughed and he barely recognized the sound that was somewhere between a chuckle and a snort of disbelief, just an explosion of disbelieving sound. “You’re the one who doesn’t know anything. Love? I don’t even know what that is. I barely even _like_ him most of the time. But I won’t leave him. Any part of him, any version of him, real or imagined, I won’t just leave him alone.”

“Why?” 

Hajime smiled, leaning a shoulder in to brush the wall to keep track of where he was going of how close he was, how far, the last thing he wanted was to fall down again. There was a buzzing in his ear like a hoard of furious bees and it seemed to be growing ever louder with each passing moment. “I can’t explain something I don’t understand,” he murmured, as much to himself as to her.

He straightened a little, shedding the fear and exhaustion like an unwanted second skin. He wasn’t even certain why he’d been scared in the first place. She was an irritation and barely that. This paltry imitation of the girl she’d once been was little more than…

He stopped moving, stopped breathing, an image of Enoshima as she’d been when she was alive floating up like a child’s lost balloon in his mind. Her smile as she’d taken his hand and guided him to that room, brought him to participate in a game, her game, how she’d promised it wouldn’t be boring. That he’d almost certainly feel… _something_.

Had he? Had he felt something? Anything at all? He’d survived, but that… wasn’t the same thing, was it? That wasn’t what he’d wanted, not really, he didn’t… didn’t care about living. He cared about… he cared… cared… 

Only it hadn’t been him had it?

It couldn’t have been him.

He’d never met her only….

Only….

The buzzing in his ears was louder suddenly, too loud, like static, like white noise consuming the world and he pressed his hands, wincing as pain spiked through the wounded flesh of his right hand, against his ears, but if anything the sound only grew louder and louder because it was in his head, not out in the world and he was screaming…

And then there was nothing.

**+++**  

He woke on his knees, breathing out a low sigh of irritation as he sat back on his heels and glared into the darkness. Pain throbbed and blood oozed from his wounds, cuts on his feet, rips across the flesh of one hand and….

He raised his good hand, the one that hadn’t been practically shredded by her fingernails, to touch his forehead, noting the lump there. It ached when he pressed on it and explained the throbbing in his skull. 

If he were capable of feeling shame or rage, he was quite certain that was what he would be feeling. Instead, he felt only a vague, directionless irritation, the sort of frustration he usually felt when things didn’t go according to plan. He shoved himself to his feet, shaking blood from his injured hand. This was actually _worse_ than Towa City had been and _that_ was no mean feat. In fact, this debacle made Towa City look like a magnificent tale of success rather than the complete epic clusterfuck of sheer stupidity and failure it had actually been. And he’d like to say it was all down to the failure that was _her_ , but it wasn’t. He had made a grave miscalculation in allowing himself to be captured, to be part of the program. He should have figured out another method of inserting her into the mainframe, but he’d never anticipated him being anything worthy of concern, much less an actual threat to his plans.

But then Hinata Hajime had done nothing but confound his expectations from the first moment he’d woken up on that virtual island.

Ironic that the one person who could still surprise him, not thwart him _obviously_ , but certainly put kinks in an otherwise perfect plan was- in a manner of speaking- himself. No, this… this, none of _this_ , had been in line with his expectations. He hadn’t known for certain what there was to Hajime beyond what he’d read in the files he’d been able to dig up, both at Hope’s Peak and out in the world, but he’d been quite sure he’d worked up a reasonably accurate hypothesis based on evidence and witness accounts. He had expected a neurotic, insecure _child_ , what he’d gotten instead had been… something else entirely.

It had been… disappointing.

Especially in light of how extensive he’d been when conducting his research. He’d even taken the time to question Hajime’s parents quite thoroughly before killing them. He hadn’t discovered anything that he hadn’t already known, nothing that had truly been of any use to him. They'd been basically useless really. They hadn’t even recognized him, hadn’t even seemed to believe him when he told them who he was just before the end. They’d just given him these blank stares as if they couldn’t comprehend what he was saying them.

It had been… curious, but not particularly worrisome. After all, it was only natural that parents would not wish to believe their offspring capable of such callous, unconscionable things.

He’d stood in the mess he’d made of them for hours after at a loss for what to do next or for why he’d even bothered to come there in the first place. Why he’d gone through all the effort of finding them for no viable gain. He'd been so certain they would be of use, one way or the other, but in the end he knew nothing more than he had when he'd began and he felt nothing beyond a whisper of disappointment. He’d been so certain that he would feel something... substantial, but there was nothing.

Still nothing.

Always nothing.

Nothing, nothing and more nothing and it was _boring_.

It was all just so _boring_.

It still was.

He snarled frustration as he shook dribbling blood from his injured hand once more and limped back towards the light and music of the diner. It didn’t escape his notice that the hallway was now utterly flat, completely ordinary, dimly lit, free of water and positively lousy with bloody footprints and the scattered remains of burnt matches and a broken flashlight.

What kind of utter moron went traipsing off into the dark with bloody, bleeding feet and no flashlight in the first place? There was a first aid kit and another flashlight right under the blasted cash register. It was as if that boy had managed to suck whatever remnants of common sense still lingered within Hajime out through his dick. One weak blowjob and a couple of awkward makeout sessions and the little moron was ready to follow that little blond bastard into hell itself with barely a moment’s hesitation.

Just _pathetic_. 

It shouldn’t even really be considered a hostile takeover at this point. It was really more of a mercy killing since Hinata Hajime was entirely too stupid to be allowed to _live_.

It was a virtually a public service.

He wasn’t entirely surprised to find her there when he eased his way back into the diner on Hajime’s aching feet, but he glared at her with cool, indifference nonetheless. “If you were planning on taking this body for yourself, you can forget it. It’s already spoken for and I’m going to take offense if you mark it up again.” 

Her laughter was high and bubbly and every bit as irritating as he remembered. Her instance on aping the original model was tiring. It made her bland, boring, predictable; everything the original hadn’t been while somehow also managing the feat of keeping all of Enoshima’s more irritating characteristics intact.

If Towa City had taught him anything it was that the less time he spent in her company, the less likely he was to crush her avatars into paste. After all paste was incapable of tittering or chortling or prattling on endlessly about _nothing_.

She was sitting at the counter, twirling idly back and forth on the barstool in a skirt was so short that if she uncrossed her legs he’d be able to see her panties. He was quite certain that wasn’t done purposefully as she had a habit of overcompensating when she felt insecure. She was wearing a black and white sweater with ‘Despair High’ embroidered in glaring, obnoxious red across her breasts. It took him a moment to realize that the outfit was supposed to be some sort of cheerleading uniform. She’d even brought pompoms, black and white with a liberal dash of red, which had been tossed haphazardly across the counter. They rustled faintly as he entered as if they were alive… or possibly full of snakes. Her hair was done up in the usual pigtails and tied off with black and white Monokuma hairbands.

He would never understand what it was about that bear design that so fascinated her. 

“What the hell are you wearing?” He asked, not really caring about the answer. He was well aware of her flare for the dramatic, but she’d pout if he didn’t inquire and the only thing that was more boring than the dramatics was the _pouting_. 

“I don’t mind a little cosplay from time to time. Do you like it?” She asked, swiveling on the stool and spreading her legs wide, resting one sneakered foot on the stool beside her and tracing fingers up the inside of her leg from the top of her knee-high sock to the edge of her short, short skirt. He had been right, that skirt was short enough that he could see her panties when she sat like that. He wasn’t surprised to find them dotted with pictures of that stupid bear’s head.

Her bra inevitably matched.

He watched the show dispassionately, “No. I find it pointless and banal and those shoulder pads make you look like a lumpy, underfed linebacker.”

“Ah, that hurts my feelings, Izuru. I wanted to do something special for our big reunion scene! You have no appreciation for a well-crafted costume.” She gestured to his pants, her bottom lip out in a firm pout as she fished the shoulder pads out of her sweater and threw them behind the counter. “I mean, honestly, if you were going to dress up as Nagito, you could have at least borrowed a shirt as well. There are certainly enough of them.”

“This world isn’t exactly lousy with options,” he replied, irritated by the reminder. It wasn’t as if _he_ _’_ _d_ chosen to wear anything that belonged to _him_.

“Hm, I suppose not. Well! You’ve been a busy little bee, haven’t you?” She snapped her bubblegum as he took the seat beside the stool she’d propped her foot against. She huffed a sigh of irritation when he didn’t react to the taunt and turned her attention back to the construction of some sort of vaguely pyramid-shaped monstrosity she’d been building across the counter with a hodgepodge of condiment packets.

She’d apparently been waiting a while.

Or she wanted him to think she had.

Not that it mattered.

“Hm, never really pegged you as gay, but I guess it makes as much sense as anything. Either that or Nagito must make up for inexperience with an excessive level of enthusiasm, hm? Though I suppose that would explain why you never spent much time staring at my tits and why Mikan’s tight, sexy little body barely did a thing for you even when you were doing it.”

“Your tits were boring,” he replied blandly, pressing open palms against the countertop. “They’re still boring. And Tsumiki was hopelessly dull and was only ever interested in pleasing _you_. I was never interested in acting as your proxy. Make yourself useful and get me the first aid kit from under the register.” 

"Bossy and rude," she sniffed, clearly annoyed. “So, if I follow that line of thought to its conclusion, I suppose you’d have me believe that that little hope junkie _isn_ _’_ _t_ boring? Unless his cock is a revelation made of Cristal and pop rocks, you’ll just have to forgive my skepticism on the subject. _I_ , unlike _you_ , have spent extensive time with Komaeda Nagito and I can’t see what it is about him that could him possibly capture your interest.” She hopped to her feet and traipsing around the counter to pluck the box from beneath the register. “It can’t possibly be the scintillating conversation. Hope this, hope _that_ , blah, blah, _blah_.”

“You’re assuming that I’m the one with the interest. Also, jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“Ah, so you’re not gay then, you’re just timesharing in the body of someone who is? A likely story,” she snickered, sliding the box across the counter to him. “And I’m not jealous, I just don’t like it when my toys ignore me in favor of playing with each other.” 

“You still talk too much,” he replied coolly, flipping open the lid and fishing out gauze, tape and alcohol swabs. “I can fix that problem for you if you’d like.”

“You do realize that infection is really the least of your worries, right?”

“To the contrary, I’d say it’s actually my largest concern at the moment,” he replied, swabbing the bloody wounds on his hand and feet and wiping away the worst of the blood and slathering the wounds with disinfectant before unrolling gauze and wrapping first his injured hand, from forearm to knuckles, and then his injured feet, from the base of his toes to the ankle, with quick, efficient motions. He sawed the pieces of gauze free with a butter knife, tucking and taping and securing the ends of each neatly in turn.

Enoshima, of course, kept talking.

“A virus joke, that’s so original, Izuru. I might just die laughing,” she replied flatly, her gaze cool and dead. “I’m so glad you’ve grown a sense of humor at last.”

“I don’t recall giving you permission to call me by my first name.”

“Don’t you? That’s ice cold, Izuru. And after all we’ve been through together? Now you really _have_ hurt my feelings. You let _Nagito_ call you by your first name. If you’re not careful, I’ll think you actually like him better than me and that wouldn’t please me. That wouldn’t please me at all. That wasn’t the plan.” 

He shrugged, pointedly keeping his attention focused on his bandaging efforts, “Yes, well, you botched the plan, didn’t you? If you hadn’t I wouldn’t be fighting for control of my own body, would I?”

“You’re still sore about _that_?” Enoshima laughed, high and grating. “I’m a very passionate person. You know this. Is it really _my_ fault that I got so caught up in my own despair that I just _had_ to see the game through to its conclusion?”

“Obviously,” he replied, taping the gauze in place to secure it after he’d tucked both ends in. “Who else’s fault might it be that you lack self-control?”

“I feel like you’re comparing me to him,” she murmured, her voice soft and dangerous. “That’s not something I would do if I were you.”

“If I were you’d both be found wanting. His self-control isn’t any better than yours.”

He is not thinking about the hallway. 

That bleary, watercolor memory of Komaeda dropping to the floor, nimble fingers making quick work of the obstacles in their path, the sloppy damp of Komaeda’s mouth. He felt Hajime move, turn within him, reaching greedily for that memory with sleepy fingers, reeling it back in and tucking it close. The flare of warmth that raced through their body as he remembered the way Komaeda had touched him afterwards, smiled at him, the light drift of fingertips across his cheeks as he smiled back.

_Boring._

With a snarl, Izuru shoved the memory at him. 

Let him have it since it meant so much to him. It wasn’t as if he wanted it. Wanted anything to do with it or the other one.

His own fingers pulling at that stingy, damp hair, rasping commands and insults, groping frantically for the detachment that had always come so easily as he tried to grasp why this was so different. Why _he_ was so different.

He wasn’t even _good_ at it. 

And then, quite suddenly, he _was_.

There was a crackle of sudden pain like a static shock against his fingertips and everything changed. The whole world seemed to shift and that sloppy, eager, inexperienced, strangely compelling disaster became something else entirely. He choked on a surprised moan, glancing down to find himself looking into the mad eyes of the man from the boat rather than the boy from the bridge.

He had been boring. His madness had been… _boring_.

It _wasn_ _’_ _t_ now.

“Funny,” Komaeda Nagito commented, drawing back and letting his good hand pick up the slack. “I could have sworn you weren’t interested in me in the slightest and yet here we are. Life’s funny, huh?”

“I’m still not interested in you,” he managed, tugging on his hair.

Komaeda laughed, “All evidence to the contrary. You’ve really cocked this whole thing up, haven’t you? All that unnatural talent and you were outdone by the ordinary nothing you began as. Call me crazy, but there’s some kind of irony in that, isn’t there?”

“I haven’t lost anything yet,” Izuru growled, giving Komaeda’s hair another yank.

“Are you sure about that?” The madman laughed again, a soft sound that chafed at his already frayed nerves. “Because from where I’m kneeling it looks like you’re clinging to a life that no longer belongs to you. Do you even care about the plan anymore? Your plans? Her plans? Or are you just trying to make it out alive?”

“Funny, I’d have asked the same thing of you.”

Komaeda hummed, averting his eyes and smiling, self-deprecating and oddly satisfied, “Well, that’s true. I like watching her plans combust, seeing all the hope that springs up in the wake of these disasters is really something special, don’t you think?”

Izuru stared down at him contemptuously, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the hand still stroking and fondling him with practiced fingers.  The way his hips twitched and lifted without his permission, how short of breath he was watching him.

Komaeda just smiled up at him beatifically, “You look constipated when you make that face, you know. It’s not attractive in the least.” 

“You’re repellent.”

He laughed, soft and wild, “I am, aren’t I? Of course, you’re worse. At least my talent is natural. You’re manufactured, a freak of nature, an abomination. You’re a loathsome, repugnant waste of space that shouldn’t even exist. I should slice you open and let you bleed out here. Or maybe I should just smash your filthy head in. Either way.”

“Your talent is mundane and boring and so are you. You’re just a dead man walking,” Izuru hissed. “Let’s weigh your luck against everything I am and see who ends up dead first.”

Komaeda laughed again and he had no idea why his body seemed to find that so attractive when he found it disgusting. “If you want me to suck it again, you could just ask.”

“I have no intention of asking _you_ for anything,” Izuru spat, but he still yanked at Komaeda’s hair. He came willingly enough, his mouth put to better use humming to himself as he worked, teeth scrapping and tongue whirling, sucking him in and swallowing him down.

In moments he was a spectator once more and Hajime was giving gentle warnings in soft tones, something like affection on his lips as he came in a rush of something more profound than simple physical pleasure. Something Izuru had no desire to understand and was utterly unable to process. All he truly knew was one simple truth: Komaeda Nagito was going to be a _problem_.

But then he might be the solution as well. 

“Besides,” Enoshima continued, oblivious to the turn of his thoughts. “That was _ages_ ago and I was a completely different person. Get with the times, Izuru, and forget the past. It’s a new day and we have a new game to play. And even you have to admit that this game has kept even you on your toes.”

“It’s an annoyance is what it is,” Izuru commented, slanting a glare at her.

“Ah, poor Izuru! Is that ordinary, boring boy giving you trouble? Why don’t I step in and lend you a hand?” Enoshima teased and he slapped her hand away before it could settle against his cheek as it seemed want to do. He could feel her shrewd, calculating gaze on him, assessing him, as her hand hovered in the air for long moments before finally settling on the edge of the counter between them.

He spoke quickly, recovering in a moment, but he knew it was a moment too long. Knew that his predictions were off now, that he’d need to reanalyze the situation if he wanted to stay ahead of her. She wasn’t as unpredictable or interesting as the real thing, but she had her moments. And he didn’t like the way she was looking at him. “Why would I require assistance from a three-time loser like yourself? You haven’t been able to best amnesiac high school students, the idiots that populate Towa City, or even your own psychotic former despair groupies. It’s pathetic, really.”

Enoshima smiled, ignoring the taunts to snatch up the power that lay beneath. Itwas obvious, it was predictable, but it was also effective. “You realize that I could crush your little boyfriend in an instant, don’t you? He was mine first and I know him best.”

Hajime stirred and mumbled within him, restless. He’d be waking up soon.

“Do you really want to go to war with me?” He murmured, dropping feints and taunts in favor of blatant scare tactics. He didn’t have the time for subtlety. “I’m sure you’d enjoy the level of despair I could cause you in the seconds you’d have to revel in it, but you wouldn’t have even a moment to spread that despair to the world.”

Enoshima clicked her tongue, averting her eyes, “Well, your sense of humor still _sucks_. I was just _joking_ , Izuru. I still need him, you know. I need _all of them_ , but those two most of all. Which is why I decided to send her to entertain him so we’d have this time to chat properly. She’ll make sure to keep him safe for us so that we can enjoy ourselves fully.”

Why did he feel uneasy? It wasn’t like he cared, Komaeda was a convenient lure, certainly, but it wasn’t as if that other bait wouldn’t suffice. He’d known, on some level, that she was here as well, but Hajime had been so focused on Komaeda that it hadn’t become an issue. And Komaeda was only consistent in his desire to stay well away from the areas where she might dwell or choose to linger. He doubted it was personal, just happenstance, a general dislike for hospitals from the years he’d probably spent in them.

He grimaced as he recalled the feel of Komaeda’s mouth wrapped around him, slick and warm and wet.

The way he… the way _Hajime_ had curled around him, held him as he came, the way Hajime’s fascination with him was turning into something like obsession. How easily he was surrendering to the idea of this reality. How _vulnerable_ that made him. Made them both.

He knew all of that, but he didn’t pretend to understand it.

Certainly, Komaeda Nagito hadn’t turned out to be precisely _boring_ , but he had little enough else to recommend him. Perhaps he did feel a sort of grudging admiration for the way the little bastard had tricked him on the bridge, the way he’d thrown himself back into the water, the way he’d made sure he fell with him. It had been… interesting.

He wanted to see him writhe and wriggle and beg and plead as much as Hajime wanted to see him safe. He wanted to destroy him utterly, but he needed to be the one who did it, no one else.

No one, but especially not _Tsumiki_.

Tsumiki who had always been the very _worst_ of Enoshima’s little band of sycophants. 

“Did. You. Now,” he grit out between clenched teeth. It certainly explained the hallway. The distant reek of disinfectant and flowers that seemed to define poorly ventilated hospitals everywhere. The dry, recycled quality of the air that had given way to something less stale as he’d made his way from the dark back into the neon-lit diner. How intent she seemed to have been on keeping Hajime there, locked in the endless darkness of that simplistic trap. “I’d hate to have to harm your little pet to repossess what’s mine, but accidents do happen.”

“Ooo, did I do something naughty? Oh, are you _angry_? You certainly seem mad, Izuru. I didn’t know you could even _get_ angry. Ooo, are you going to punish me now? Tie me up? Tie me down? I think I’m getting a little excited just thinking about it. I might even enjoy myself if it’s you. Do you think you could inflict the proper amount of despair to allow me that?” He flexed his wounded hand, now properly bandaged. It still hurt, but it was better than it had been and at least now it wasn’t leaking everywhere. “Aw, you’re not leaving already are you? I miss our little talks,” she pouted, frowning as he closed the medical kit and slid off the barstool, the pain in his feet was distant, virtually nonexistent now that they were tightly wrapped in layers and layers of soft gauze.

“You’ve stolen something that belongs to me and given is to that clumsy girl. Did you imagine that I’d thank you for it?”

Enoshima sighed, exasperated, hands resting on her hips, “Oh? He’s _yours_ now, is he? You’re bumming me out, you know? This was supposed to be a party atmosphere, but you’re so _serious_. It’s a total mood killer. So, you can tell me, just between us girls: do you actually _feel_ something for him? I didn’t think emotions were your thing, but you do seem _awfully_ concerned about him.”

Izuru slanted an annoyed glance at her, “I don’t care about him. He’s merely a means to an end.”

“ _Really?_ Nothing at _all_? So, you’re going to blame all that useless sentimentality on Mr. Boring? It wasn’t me, it was that ordinary, nothing special boy whose body I’m renting to own?”

“This isn’t his body. He’s nothing but smoke lingering in the air after a fire has burned the house down. He’ll fade away soon enough. This is still all well within my calculations.” Izuru replied, ignoring the rest as ridiculous and unimportant.

Enoshima never had known when to shut up, a trait that lived on in this cheap imitation.

“Really? So you _planned_ to spend your entire evening playing footsie with Komaeda Nagito in a cheesy theme diner?” 

“Hardly,” he scoffed, gritting his teeth as Hajime turned and turned within him, more restless and closer to waking with each passing moment. He didn’t have the time or the patience for this nonsense.

Her breath puffed against his neck, warm and wet, “So, you don’t _really_ mind that I’ve sent her to play with him, do you?” 

“My plans are not quite so easily thwarted, if that’s what you’re asking,” he answered, shoving away from the counter. “You’d think you weren’t even interested in escape with the way you’re acting.”

“Oh, it’s hardly that. It’s just… well, I can’t really _lose_ here, can I? What will inspire in me the greater despair? Dying an ignonymous death in bits and bytes? Escaping to linger on in the world in all those borrowed bodies. To live and inspire and plot new ways to spread despair? I want to feel it. I want to drown in it. I want to make _you_ feel it." 

“I don’t feel despair.”

“You don’t feel _anything_ and that’s a type of despair in its own right and that is why you’re so interesting and _useful_ , Izuru.” She smiled, reaching out to pinch his cheek and laughing, darting back and away, when he struck out at her. “So, let’s play another game. It can be a racing game. Let’s see if you can get to him before she takes him apart. She’s always liked him, you know. And why not? He’s practically the perfect patient if you can manage to keep him under control. Just the right balance of demanding and compliant and abusive and she’s been so very _lonely_. Of course, that was before when he didn’t really want anything besides hope, when he loved and hated me more than anyone else because I was the only one who could possibly gift him with that great, big, beautiful hope he thought he was looking for. I wonder if he’ll be as cooperative now.”

She gave a careless shrug that meant everything and nothing at all.

She didn’t have to say that things were different now. That was, after all, the crux of the issue. The reason Komaeda was a point of contention between them when he might otherwise have been worthy of little consideration at all.

Hajime had made him _important_.

Without even the faintest inkling of what he was doing, he’d made him important by coming here for him again and again until they began filling in each other's empty spaces.

He had to work to keep his expression bland and disinterested. And the fact that he had to work at it at all was telling enough.

Was this Hajime’s influence?

Or Komaeda’s?

Either way it made him want to strangle the life out of that laughing bastard. He’d known from the beginning that he was dangerous, but he’d never dreamed that he would become a danger to him, not truly. If he had, he would have killed him on the boat before they’d ever entered that ridiculous simulation. Wrapped his hands around that scrawny, anemic neck and squeezed until that mad light that had no business even still _existing_ had gone dark at last. He’d tried to put an end to him on the beach, but….

The look of his face as he had touched him… stroked him… pinned him beneath the cold, rolling waves. The way Hajime’s presence had reared up unexpectedly to steal the reins, to take control. He should have expected that, should have anticipated that reaction, but they both threw his predictions, his expectations, off the mark.

It had been a… misstep.

But it had also been interesting. After all he'd been surprised twice in just a matter of minutes and he'd always had a weakness when it came to the unexpected.

“You are not to interfere,” he replied and while he knew only a brief moment had passed and his expression couldn’t have betrayed his thoughts, he still wanted to smack the knowing smirk off Enoshima’s gloating face.

Had there been a time when he’d found her compelling? When he’d found her beautiful? When her voice had not grated on his nerves? He wasn’t certain, but he thought there must have been. With the real her, the one who had been able to drive him, incite him when very little else had. He’d never been like them, those ridiculous sycophants who’d so willfully pranced into her traps time and again until they’d lost themselves and plummeted into despair, but he had let her inside him in his own way. Let her influence him and he had done all this in the interest of bringing her, her particular brand of madness and despair, back into the world and allowing it to spread throughout. She wasn’t boring, after all, when everything else clearly _was_. When she was at her most chaotic, he had trouble predicting her movements or at least he had… now….

It was the same frustration he’d felt in Towa City.

The cheap copy was just that and she grated harshly against nerves already made raw by Hajime’s ever-strengthening presence.

Everything was falling apart. Turning upside down and he found himself grasping at loose, fraying ends as the unraveling threads at the core of who he’d once been were tugged and stolen away. He was at a disadvantage, clinging by his fingernails to a life that was being pulled from him inch by painstaking inch and he needed every advantage he could get and now Enoshima had stolen one of those precious advantages away.

And that couldn’t be allowed.

He could see how this would play out, the merit and rhythm of the conversation. She’d keep him talking, engaged in setting out rules and nuances until Tsumiki had been able to complete her part in this under the guise of having done the damage, whatever that might be, beforehand and there would be virtually no chance of Komaeda emerging unscathed. This version of her might be as predictable as the fall of night and rise of day, but being able to predict what she would do did him very little good if he lacked a course of action or the ability to stymie her.

She smiled at him, holding her hands up, fingers crossed, “Games aren’t any fun at all without rules to play by, are they? So, it’s you versus Mikan with Nagito’s life on the line and I’m not allowed to interfere. I’m sure this will be super fun to watch. What other rules would you like to set in place?”

Predictable.

Boring.

But he only had one effective course of action left to him, because Hajime was waking up and he was out of time

“Just two: _Hajime_ will be the one playing and the game starts now,” he snarled crossing to the door and shoving it open with a tinkle of protesting bells. He glanced back at her and found the gob smacked look on her face vaguely satisfying as he cast his body out into the pouring rain.

Hajime tripped over his newly bandaged feet and sprawled across the dark, wet pavement of the diner parking lot as the door fell closed behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's how that is. Gold star to those who caught the Mikan moments between all the Junko in the last chapter. I wasn't (and still am not) quite sure how subtle that actually was since Junko is kind of a personality-shifting dynamo so she seemed like pretty decent camouflage.
> 
>  **Timeline Notes:** The conversation Izuru is recalling towards the end of this chapter between himself and Komaeda takes place during the hallway scene at the diner in Chapter 6. It's alluded to briefly in Chapter 7 during Komaeda's recollection of the scene.
> 
> Comments and kudos are, as always, very much appreciated, but never required.


	9. The Loneliest Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which truth is in the eye of the beholder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now... for something completely different. Mind the days.

_“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”_  
― Kurt Vonnegut, Mother Night

 **+++**  
**DAY THREE**  
-continued-

 

She dragged broken, bitten nails down the white door, leaning heavily against the frame. She could hear Komaeda inside; hear him calling for _him_ , his voice shrill and breaking with panic. Calling his name as if he were _there_ , as if he could _save_ him, as if he _would_. 

As if Hinata Hajime had ever been able to save anyone.

Even himself.

She licked her lips, tongue darting across them to find them dry and chapped; she was nervous, unaccountably nervous, her stomach churning and tumbling like it was caught in a riptide. Touching the door helped to ground her, settle her feelings, bring the world back into focus. It was such a flimsy barrier, barely even real. She could feel the chipped paint of the door, rough beneath her fingers, flecks of paint digging painfully beneath her fingernails as she dragged and scrapped them across the surface.

He was just there. Her patient was just there on the other side of this flimsy barrier and he _needed_ her. She could hear him calling, feel his desperation like heat warming her soul and she wondered how long it would take to wring that strange, unlikely hope from his long-suffering body. How long would it take to free him, save him from himself, from these… delusions? How long until he understood that there was nothing for him here but disappointment and despair? How long until she could break those chains of emotion that bound him to that memory of a boy who’d never been?

“M-Mister Komaeda,” she called, clearing her throat, her words stuttering and breaking in the warm, moist air of the hall. It came out more whisper than word and she had to try again, her voice a little louder, a little more certain each time she called him until she realized that she’d called him a dozen times or more, that she was practically shouting his name now, her throat rough with the strain. He had fallen silent, but she knew he was there, still there, waiting for her. Where else could he go, after all? He was trapped like a rat in that room, that room where she had slept beside, on top of that illusion he coveted. He was probably frozen, crouched near the door, a deer caught in headlights waiting for the inevitable crunch of bone and sinew. She could imagine him crying, silently, though she’d never yet seen what tears looked like flowing across his splotchy cheeks. Poor broken boy, sweet wounded bird with bloody feet and a stolen shirt. She tried to sound calm, safe, gentle, but she had a sneaking suspicion that she'd lost the knack. “You should really come out now. It’s time to take your medicine.”

“Don’t want to,” he replied with a whine, but the protest was weak, feeble. He wanted to come out, of course, he did. He wanted it to be over, he wanted her to take care of him, he wanted to stop worrying and wondering. She understood that. She’d wanted the same thing. After all, it was so lonely here and it was so easy, so easy to forget that this wasn’t… wasn’t what they were meant for.

She was fortunate that she’d had her beloved to remind her.

Mister Komaeda had had nothing and no one. It wasn't so surprising to discover he'd cracked under the pressure. It was her fault, after all. He was her patient. She had promised to care for him, but she’d forgotten that for a while. Forgotten that and forgotten him and they’d both been so alone here when they could have had each other, but it wasn’t too late. She could still fix things, she could still help him to remember, to become. Certainly things would never have progressed to this point if she’d sought him out from the very beginning, if she’d cared for him as she should have, but there was still time. After all, they had nothing _but_ time here, didn’t they?

“H-He’s not here, Mister Komaeda. He was never here. There’s no one here, Mister Komaeda, no one at all, but you and me. No one is coming to save you, to save us, and, even if they were… would you really want that? Aren’t you tired, Mister Komaeda? Aren’t you tired of being lonely and afraid? Aren’t you tired of hoping? Aren't you tired of pretending to be something you're not?”

“Yes,” he replied and it was a whisper and a plea all in one and she smiled.

“I want to help you, Mister Komaeda, all I’ve ever wanted to do was help. All you have to do is let me in.”

 **+++  
** **DAY ONE**

It was dark and it was cold and she was alone.

And then there was a voice in the darkness… just a whisper… warm and comforting….

_Tsumiki._

_Tsumiki Mikan._

No, that wasn’t _quite_ right, was it?

It wasn’t just _a_ voice. No, it was a multitude of _voices_... loud and soft and warm and cold and they echoed around her and within her and there was no telling where they began or she ended. 

It was dark and in the dark there were only those sounds, those whispers and shouts. There were only those _words_.

_Tsumiki Mikan._

_You dirty bitch._

_You should wake up now._

_I_ _’_ _ll never forgive you._

_You must wake up now._

_Go to hell._

_Please, wake up._

_I hope you drown in your own vomit, you ugly pig._

_Mikan, you must wake up now. Time is growing short._

But she was just so _tired_. So terribly _tired_ and the voices were really far away and they didn’t… they didn’t _mean_ anything so it was really easy to ignore them and the darkness was so regretfully deep.

Tsumiki Mikan slept on.

**+++  
DAY TWO**

   
_C_ ' _mon, wake up already, sleepyhead. I don_ ' _t have all day to wait on you, you know._

When she finally woke up it was to incomplete darkness, an aching back and a bone-deep confusion that had her blinking dumbly at the big, blank screen before her for long moments after she’d opened her eyes.

She was sprawled out in an uncomfortable chair, legs akimbo and skirt twisted unpleasantly and too high around her hips. The fabric of the seat was rough and patchy against her bare thighs and the arms of the chair had left painful indentations in the flesh of her forearms. She had a terrible crick in her neck. She drew herself up a little, bracing her hands, which ached a little like they were bruised or lightly burned, against the armrests. Her back complained of even that small movement, the aching, throbbing pain that came of resting in an unfortunate position for far too long. She glanced around at the threadbare, shabby red seats that made up the front row of the movie theater and shifted again, nervous and sick at the thought of having fallen asleep in such a place. The floor was sticky from years of spilled soda and shoddy cleaning practices and her shoes made a gross peeling sound as she shifted them.

The theatre was dark around her, the only illumination cast by the safety lights that lined the aisles. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to see by, enough to allow her to look around and be reasonably sure that the theater was completely empty save for her. The scent of stale popcorn and burnt oil in the air was strong enough to make her gag. 

What had happened?

Had she really fallen asleep here? 

It seemed like a truly terrible place for a nap.

There was a sharp crackling, popping noise in the darkness and the screen before her burst to life. It seemed too bright after the darkness and she winced, drawing in on herself as she reached up to rub the sleep from her eyes with a hand that tingled like the nerves were springing back to life. The sound of those pops and crackles petered out into silence as images flickered to life across the screen. She recognized the title screen as the one belonging to that terrible film she’d been bullied by Monokuma to watch.

That terrible film that she’d….

She’d….

She….

 _How lame. You don_ ' _t even want to think about it?_

She shivered, her breath painting the air with smoke as she exhaled. Gooseflesh prickled to life across her bare arms and legs and she drew her knees up tight against her body, shivering again. It was an awkward motion in the cheap seat, causing it to fold in a little and her butt to get wedged uncomfortably in the space that opened at the back of the seat as it closed just a little around her. The scratchy fabric of the seat chafed her bare skin, not quite painful, but uncomfortable, itchy. Like the seat was a mouth attempting to swallow her down and the cheap fabric cover were its tongue, rough as a cat’s, tasting and tenderizing before it could consume her utterly.

She shivered harder.

Why was it so _cold_?

The island had always been so warm, almost… unbearably so at times.

The island….

She remembered the feel of first waking in that place. It had felt just as lonely as waking in the theater, for all that it had been far more crowded, and there had been that inescapable, creeping sensation that she was _forgetting_ something, someone _important_ , but she’d been unable to summon up a name or a face or anything at all but more of that strange muddled confusion.

Her first thought upon opening her eyes to find herself seated on warm white sand was that it was nothing like Okinawa in March. The air had been too hot for one, moist and burning, sweat had already been gathering between her thighs and along her brow, dripping freely down her chest to dampen the collar of her shirt, vaguely unpleasant. The palm tree she was leaning against was scratchy and rough against her back, catching and pulling at her hair as she sat up and the dull roar of the ocean waves rushing against the shore seemed strangely loud even though the area around her was filled with the vaguely distressed sound people talking to and over each other, all seemingly just as confused and flustered as she felt.

She watched them all with wide eyes, unwilling to jump into any of the many conversations that were happening around her. There were so very many people talking, nearly a dozen at a glance, but for all that… it really hadn’t seemed as anyone was actually listening. Just so many strangers milling about and she'd never been great with strangers. If there was one thing that the orphanage had taught her, it was that it never paid to call attention to yourself until you understood who and what you were dealing with. A wrong word or a casual touch could earn you anything from a smile to a slap in the face to a knife in the thigh. Strangers were unpredictable. 

Things had been… easier in the infirmary. Once she’d begun to help out there, once she’d found her talent, she’d been able to prepare, to plan, to understand people before she had to meet them, deal with them. That was where she discovered that you could learn a lot about a person by studying their wounds, their ailments, their weaknesses and after that she knew what to do. She began to understand how to get what she wanted, what she needed.

Doctor Saito hadn’t ever seemed to care too much what she did so long as she kept what patients there were quiet and docile. He’d pinch her or slap her arms, quick and painful, when she was too clumsy or too slow, but sometimes, when she’d done particularly well he’d pat her on the head, cheeks flushed red from too much cheap sake, and say, ‘That’s my good girl.”

She’d learned so much about people when she’d become a nurse, but it still meant that it had been years since she’d had to deal with so many strangers all at once with no time to prepare beforehand and she wasn’t sure how to even begin. 

Some of them looked passingly familiar, possibly from the research she had done on her class before….

Hope’s Peak Academy.

She’d been… she’d been accepted to Hope’s Peak, hadn’t she? She’d been… excited about the beginning of term. It was a new school, a new world, a fresh start where she could be anyone she wanted to be… where she would be valued for her talents, where she might find someone who would love her, would cherish her, would forgive her mistakes. Someone she could care for, who would need only her.

Only…

It had seemed as if that had gone wrong somehow.

And so she had been at a bit of a loss as to what she should do.

She’d still been turning over her options, fingers tangled and tugging gently but persistently at her hair, when a red-haired girl with a large camera slung across her hip crouched down in front of her, smiling brilliantly. “Hello there,” she said, folding her arms across her bent knees. “You look as confused as we all feel.”

“A-Ah,” she cleared her throat nervously, surprised by the sudden attention. “Um, I, y-yes, I, um, can’t seem to, um… is this H-Hope Peak’s Academy, by chance? It, uh, t-that is… that is, pardon me for saying so, but it just… it doesn’t look much like it did in the brochure, does it?”

The girl laughed, a little strained, but not unkindly and Mikan felt that laugh all the way to the tips of her toes. She was used to being laughed at, she’d often been laughed at, at the orphanage and before, but it had rarely been so… nice. “That’s true, I guess. I’m not sure what’s happening, no one is, but it seems like everyone here was supposed to be attending Hope’s Peak Academy starting today. Here, let me help you up?” The girl dusted her sandy palms against her bare knees and stood before she offered her hand. Mikan took it after only the briefest of hesitations and allowed the girl to offer her a wide infectious smile as she pulled her to her feet. “It’s nice to meet you, by the way. I’m Koizumi. Koizumi Miharu.”

“I-It’s, uh, nice to meet you too,” she managed, a nervous smile of her own fluttering to life on her lips. And for a moment, she had thought that maybe… maybe this, whatever it was, wouldn’t be so difficult after all. Miss Koizumi could have just left her sitting in the dirt or not come and talked to her at all, so, maybe the others would be just as… accepting. “I’m, um, that is, my name is T-Tsu-“ she had begun, her fingers still clasped around Miss Koizumi’s warm hand when shouts erupted from further up the beach. A large excitable man in a leather jacket and a girl wearing clothes that seemed two sizes too small had begun talking loudly and gesturing emphatically to each other as well as to the large boy in the white suit who was clearly attempting to reason with them without much success.

“Oh, jeez, what now?” Miss Koizumi muttered, releasing her hand and leaving her behind without another word as she turned on her heel and hurried over towards the commotion, camera banging gently against her hip.

It wasn’t as if she weren’t used to that sort of treatment. It wasn’t as if she were unaware of how simple it was to hate her, ignore her, to forget all about her. Things would be different. She wasn’t… she’d just have to find a way to… to make herself indispensible, that was all. They couldn’t hate her if they had to rely on her, if she were the one who took care of them. She just… needed a chance to show what she was worth. She was a nurse so… so it wouldn’t be weird if she checked everyone over, would it?

That familar anxiety began to bubble in her stomach and she swallowed hard, concentrating on breathing slow and measured breaths. This was fine. She could hande this. She could... she could save someone’s life… that would be enough, wouldn’t it? Wouldnt it? What did she need to do? What would prove that she was useful, necessary? She just... just needed a chance to... to examine everyone to see if anyone were injured and needed help and that would… would give her a chance to get to know them, to get them to look at her, see her, remember her and if one of them happened to actually be in trouble… well… that was good wasn't it?

She was good at what she did, she was confident of that. That was why she’d been invited to attend Hope’s Peak, after all. And if… if they were stuck in this place, well, she might be their only hope if they fell ill or were injured so, maybe, maybe this… was a good thing. She just… needed to focus on making them see how useful she could be. That was all. That was....

She glanced around the beach, her gaze darting from one panicked expression to the next. They all looked much as she felt, as Miss Koizumi had suggested, vulnerable and confused. All just as clueless as to where they were or why, but… none of them appeared to be injured or in need of assistance. Oh, that wasn’t good. That… was… how was she supposed to be useful when they wouldn’t cooperate…?

And that was when she saw him.

A boy lying in the sand a few yards away in the shade of another palm tree, his hands folded neatly over his stomach.

Strange… she could have sworn there had been no one there at all when she had first glanced that way, but there he was… just lying there. Dark hair against white sand and he had a nice face, kind maybe, and compared to the others, he seemed quite plain, normal. A daisy tucked neatly into a bouquet of orchids. They were just all so… different and unique and he was… just the very image of a typical high school student complete with a dress shirt and tie. He seemed… less intimidating than the others. Maybe it was because he was just… _lying there_ , sleeping, completely oblivious to the commotion going on around him as if he were… waiting.

Waiting to be discovered, maybe, as if he weren’t really anyone at all until someone came along and brought him to life. Like maybe he could be whatever she wanted him to be, the perfect patient. Like maybe he could be someone who would love her and forgive her and always look only at her, someone _special_.

She licked her lips, glancing around furtively to see if anyone else had noticed him or if, perhaps, he were simply an illusion brought on by too much time in the sun. She did feel rather hot after all. But at a glance they all still seemed to be too involved in their own problems to notice anything outside themselves. So, maybe she could just go see for herself and if he weren’t real, maybe they wouldn’t even notice that she’d done something weird….

She hadn’t even realized she’d taken an eager step forward towards him until a boy courting heat stroke in a green parka far too warm for the weather, seemed to materialize in the sand between them. She hesitated, caught between one step and the next, unable to move any further, staring at them dumbly as her place was stolen away. She should be… relieved to know that she wasn’t seeing things, but all she felt was disappointment coiled around her heart as her moment vanished.

Still, she reasoned, as she watched the boy wake, watched him smile at the boy hovering over him. Even if she wasn't the one to wake him, she could still check him over and....

“What are _you_ looking at, big boobs?” A shrill, girlish voice demanded, sudden, loud, and unexpectedly close. Mikan flinched back, blinking quickly as she allowed her eyes to refocus on the sudden movement in front of her. She wasn’t sure how she hadn’t seen her since she was only feet away, standing squarely between where she’d stopped and where her patient had been sleeping. The girl was short with blond pigtails, flushed cheeks, a bright kimono and such an irritated expression that it made Mikan want to curl up in a corner somewhere and apologize over and over for whatever she had done to earn it.

Nervous, she fidgeted with the edge of her apron and glanced away nervously from the girl’s glare. Maybe… maybe she wasn’t even talking to her. Maybe she was talking to someone else, there were a lot of other people around after all. Her gaze drifted back to the boys to find them standing together, a little too close, beneath the shade of the palm tree. The dark-haired boy brushed sand from his clothes and his new companion reached out to steady him when he wavered a little after standing back up too quickly.

“Oh, _I_ see how it is,” the girl commented, drawing Mikan’s attention reluctantly back to her twisted, crooked smirk and wide, threatening gaze. “ _You_ weren't looking at me at _all_ , were you? Bet you were planning on jumping all over _that_ , huh? Gross. Too bad for you that the weirdo in the jacket got there first."

“I-I-I wasn't, sorry, I, um, sorry, I-I-uh,” she choked out, startled by the girl’s sudden accusation and grasping frantically for a lie, but coming up with only awkward apologies.

“You uh-uh-uh- what?” The girl sneered, hands on her hips. “You uh-uh totally wanna see if he’ll motorboat those giant tits of yours? Gross. How filthy can you be?”

"I-I-I w-wasn't..." She stuttered unable to manage anything further, trailing off as tears filled her eyes and shame threatened to strangle her. It was always like this. Always, always rejected and hated for no reason and she just… she’d been so stupid. So, so stupid. Why had she thought this would be any different? Why did everyone always blame her? Why wasn’t it… why? _Why?_ She caught her fingers in her hair and pulled sharply. The pain helped her focus, helped her reign in the sobs at least even as the tears spilled warm and mortifying across her cheeks.

"Are you _crying_?” The girl hissed, sneering and vicious. “That's just so _pathetic_ I can barely stand it. You probably just want _attention_ , huh? Is that it? Just want to be able to tell everyone how _mean_ I was to you? You think people will like you better if you slobber those fake ass tears all over them? Boy, are you _stupid_. Why don’t you just get the heck away from me, before I _really_ give you something to cry about, huh?" She practically snarled the last and Mikan found herself nodding, frantically, the tears so thick they were almost blinding as she stumbled away.

She was just so mean, so terribly _cruel_ , but then... that was how she'd always been.

Right up until the moment she’d drawn that scalpel across her throat and held her up by her hair as she bleated and struggled and bled out all over the wooden floor of Titty Typhoon’s stage.

It was hard to be cruel when you were _dead_.

Only….

None of that had been real, had it?

Not _really_ real.

And so nothing she’d done there had really mattered, had it?

Only…

She was still… still _there_.

She’d been so certain that she would awaken, if she awakened at all, in the arms of her beloved or… something like that.

It was supposed to be something like that, wasn’t it?

She’d only had a sort of vague, incomplete picture of how it might have worked, really, when she’d set out to curb the fever running through her veins by participating in the game, _her_ game. But the _important_ thing, the only thing that had really mattered, was that, however it worked, she would have been _with_ her beloved. Finally, _finally_ with her beloved again and more completely than ever before. She would be with her and her beloved would be alive and able and out in the world bringing fresh despair to those who _deserved_ it, _needed_ it. That she herself would be loved and forgiven all her transgressions. It was supposed to be everything she wanted, everything she _needed_.

Only….

It hadn’t been, had it?

Not if she was _here_.

_Alone._

Because of all the ways she’d imagined things would turn out… she’d never thought she would wake up alone.

Was this… _rejection_?

It couldn’t be, could it? She _always_ forgave her. Always, always, _always_ forgave her. No matter what she did, no matter how badly she messed up, no matter how severely she needed to be punished, in the end, her beloved _always_ forgave her.

Despair clawed at her chest and she moaned, soft and helpless, keening as she buried her face against her knees.

What had she done _wrong_?

She’d opened herself up to despair, fallen into it willingly and she’d prepared such a beautiful gift for her beloved, to that remnant of her that existed within that place. And maybe… maybe it hadn’t _quite_ worked out the way she’d imagined, but… but that had been fine too. She would forgive her. She had to forgive her. She _always_ forgave her.

She’d made a gift of herself instead, surrendered gladly to the execution once it became clear she wouldn’t be able to convince them to forgive her, to choose someone else. She’d surrendered herself knowingly and fully to the idea of her beloved rising from the ashes. She’d done it all to be well and truly joined with her, hadn’t she?

That had been the plan… hadn’t it?

Or… or had the plan been something else?

She… she couldn’t quite…

She remembered being hooked up to leads and wires, allowing the violation in silence because it had a _purpose_. She had a goal, they all did, and it was worth allowing them to manhandle her, to condescend to them as if they were children led astray rather than adults who understood fully what they had done and why, to allow them to push sedatives and relaxants into her veins and submerge her in that lukewarm sludge. She recalled choking on it as it filled her mouth, her lungs, before the sedatives finished their work and the program activated to send her conscious mind away from her drowning body.

But she couldn’t quite remember now why… why she’d… what the plan… the _goal_ had been.

The plan had been… _something_.

Something.

But she’d… she’d been trying to get them to kill each, right? She hadn’t been mistaken about that, had she? That wasn’t… that wasn’t a mistake. She was sure… sure… sure… that….

So, what had gone _wrong_?

Was this _his_ fault? Had he done something after she’d… after she’d been executed to ruin everything?

“This has to be his fault, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it? _Doesn_ _’_ _t it?!_ _”_ She screamed, voice muffled against her knees, unsurprised when she received nothing in return but the endless clicking of the projector.

There were no answers to be had in this place, only self-recriminations, abundant silence and that ridiculous film, flickering to life and dying over and over again on that huge white screen.

She was tired of watching it.

Tired of being reminded of her failures when there was no one around to punish or forgive her for them.

Unless, of course, there _was_.

Her breath caught and glanced up from her knees, looking around the room frantically.

After all, someone had had to turn on the projector, hadn’t they? It hadn’t been on when she’d first woken up, had it?

So… _maybe_ …?

“Hello?” She called, shoving herself to her feet. The film had played through once, twice, a dozen times or more with no sign of pausing or stopping as if someone had found a way to loop it endlessly. It was silent, the images flickering across the screen the only life that illuminated the darkness around her. The film didn’t bother her, not _exactly_ , but at the same time she had no desire to see it again and again.

But obviously someone else did….

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Standing, stepping forward, she realized that she wasn’t quite… unharmed. The muscles in her legs ached, her heart raced from even that single, simple movement, so much so that it made her feel… odd, faint and strangely jittery. She coughed, raising her arm to cover her mouth, and she felt something wet splatter across the back of her forearm. She knew without looking that it was blood. Blood sprayed like dark freckles across the tight white bandages she wore there.

Was she hemorrhaging internally, perhaps?

Had her lungs been damaged somehow?

At her execution it seemed as if someone… she seemed to remember being injected with… _something_ , her heart thudding loud and painful in her chest.

The feel of straddling something, something that throbbed warm and solid between her thighs, how she ached as it vibrated against her, that she’d been too hot and damp, feverish, swollen and flushed, on the cusp of ecstasy and then spilling over. It had been as if the world had exploded around her and she’d been flying high, shooting up through the sky and into space. Her lips had been parted in a silent scream as she’d risen higher and higher, her face burning and there was a pleasure like pain and it had felt as if her eyes were so wide open that she could see nothing and everything all at once. Then she’d been bursting, shattering into a thousand million specks of light, just numbers, ones and zeros, scattered across a digital landscape.

And then there had been…

There had been…

_Nothing._

Or nothing that she could remember at any rate.

There was very little left that felt substantial and she could almost feel bits crumpling and falling away as she tried to recall those moments. The edges had become jagged and irregular and puzzles were impossible to complete when there were pieces missing without fabricating new ones to take their place.  
  
…And none of that made any sense at all really.

It was… she could remember everything that had happened, everything on the island and before, or at least she thought she could, but it was all… jumbled, jammed up and bleeding together in her head. Memories of her life before, of her life answering the call of her beloved, of following the dictates of her own wants and desires, of living the false life they had given her on the island.

Mostly she remembered the fervent desire to love and be loved and forgiven, the one constant of her lives… the one that had truly been hers and the one they’d set her up for.

Two lives… two loves, conflicted and twisting in her heart.

Her beloved.

And… _him_.

Him.

_Hinata Hajime._

She remembered him. And her. Them. The one who loved her and the one who had betrayed her and what was important beyond that? Beyond _them_? Everything else was just so much noise, really.

She remembered watching the execution, her execution, in disbelief on the tiny television in her motel room, gripping her knees with bloodless fingers as her beloved initiated her own destruction. It wasn’t that they’d never realized there was a chance she’d be defeated, that had always been a possibility, it was just… seeing it, seeing the execution her beloved had chosen was… _difficult_. Still, they’d planned for this. They’d…

A mumbling, whining sound erupted from the bed behind her and she had whipped around to glare at the white-coated man strapped to the bed behind her.

“C-can’t you see I’m b-busy? Y-you’re very fortunate that it appears w-we’re going to need you after all, doctor,” she murmured as she forced herself to relinquish the hold on her knees to slide off the cheap, slick bedspread to stand and wobble sightlessly to the room’s tidy little bathroom.

She could hear the sound of those... those… hateful, ungrateful _children_ speaking as the broadcast continued.

They would leave the school. She didn’t have to hear them to know that. Of course they would leave their pathetic little sanctuary, that ark they’d tried to create for themselves, and reemerge into the world. Of course they would. Idiots. That had been the whole _point_ , hadn’t it? And they thought it was their own choice, their own idea, their victory, but it _wasn_ _’_ _t_.

Of course it wasn’t.

No, the game was far from over and everything was proceeding just as she’d intended. They would venture out into the world of their own free will, those survivors of Hope’s Peak, those talented children, forever changed by what they’d endured. A symbol of hope for a world that hated and adored them for all they’d been through. But they… wouldn’t be the same as they had been, no, they would be… something other than what they would have been without her intervention, something different and infinitely more interesting.

Would they be the hope of the world or the heralds of its destruction?

No one could say and that… _that_ was what made the game worth playing, worthy of sacrifice. It was a long game her beloved had thought to play and one no one could truly foretell the outcome of.

“That’s the fun of it,” her beloved had told her as she leaned into the mirror and refreshed her lipstick before leaving to rejoin her classmates in their isolation. “Anything less would be boring.”

But be that as it may, the despair she’d left in her wake was still… devastating, overpowering. No matter how much this outcome might have thrilled her beloved… she had found she still couldn’t enjoy this outcome. After all, her beloved was gone and all that was left was the despair that bloomed in the gapping hole she left behind. And it was a beautiful thing, but it was awful too.

She contemplated throwing things, breaking things, bashing her face against the bathroom mirror until it shattered and she bled. She thought about crying, screeching, wailing her loss for all to hear, to find some of those… those spectators, that so-called audience, and force them to share in her despair. In the end though she just wrapped her fingers in her hair and pulled, pulled until tears blurred her vision and the pain was so intense she bit her bottom lip bloody trying not to scream. She felt some give, strands tearing free of her scalp and the world went briefly black before she was able to finally relinquish her hold, panting and shaking those torn, bloody clumps free from her fingers. The pain grounded her, made it easier to breathe. Blood trickled down her head and neck to leak and soak into the collar of her shirt.

She could do this.

She _could_.

They’d all made a promise together and she had to hurry if they were going to keep it. Time was of the essence after all and it was imperative that they reach the school before those that opposed her beloved’s desires, her quest to spread despair, summoned the courage to breach those walls and retrieve the bodies.

She stumbled as she took a step forward, her thoughts of the past interrupted by the sound of her shoe peeling off the sticky floor and she was back in the theater once more… a jumbled, mixed up lifetime away from that terrible day.

How long ago had that been? Months? Days? Years?

She had no way to know for certain. These memories of the truth, of her life before were just… snatches of truth and lies. Scenes and moments and feelings all piled up in a heap that she couldn’t quite sort out, the connections lost somewhere along the way. Some things and moments she remembered well and others were… almost gone, just remnants of what her life had been and there were all these conflicting emotions that made her feel weak and dizzy when she thought too much about how she had loved them.

Laughter bubbled up inside her, strange and inappropriate, spilling into the air in the form of hiccupping giggles muffled against the back of her hand.

Not that any of that mattered, not really, not here, not now, not while she was so very alone.

“Hello? Anyone?” She called, clearing her throat when the sound came out hoarse and rough.

She spared another glance around in the hopes that her words or thoughts might have summoned company, but the theater was as devoid of life as it had been since she’d woken, only the quiet chatter and pop of the old projector left to disturb the silence.

Whoever had been there, if someone had been there at all, they qweren’t there now. They hadn’t bothered to stick around at all.

Were they… _mad_ at her?

Was that why they’d left her here?

Why they’d played that film?

Or maybe… maybe it was a hint? Maybe she had to find them… like… like a game.

She smiled, a nervous titter escaping her lips.

Yes, that sounded like something she might do, didn’t it?

Her beloved did enjoy games, didn’t she?

With that thought in mind she stumbled up the aisle on stiff, uncertain, aching legs and into the lobby. The stench of burnt oil was nauseatingly strong there, the popcorn machine sizzling and hot. The dented plastic door had been left hanging open, popcorn kernels spilling out across the counter and floor.

She remembered the crinkle of tinfoil and the smell of burning oil and the thick, stale reek of beer. Hiding behind their dirty, threadbare couch, waiting, just in case he wanted her to go get him another. Because if she was _useful_ , if she was what they _wanted_ , they might not send her away, they might want to _keep_ her and that….

…That had been a very long time ago in another life far away from the person she had become.

It had been… interesting to revisit all those foster families after she’d left Hope’s Peak behind.

To see all those tiny houses and those tiny people whose approval she no longer required, whose forgiveness she no longer craved. It had been…

_Cathartic._

**+++**

It was night when she slipped cautiously out the theater’s door into the world beyond. The air was thick and humid and her body still felt… strange and clumsy around her as she stumbled out onto the path that circled the little island. It seemed to take no time at all before she found herself standing outside the music venue, the neon was bright, flickering and flashing in the dark of the night and the interior light shone through the cracks around the door.

She supposed it should have seemed welcoming, inviting, maybe, but instead it simply felt vaguely sinister.

It shouldn’t….

It shouldn’t have bothered her to be here. It was just a place. And, really, it wasn’t even that. It wasn’t really a place anymore than the girls she’d killed here had really been people.

Well…

Maybe that wasn’t quite true…

Still it wasn’t her fault. She’d only done what she had to do, but she supposed they’d been as real as she was in this place, so maybe they’d been real enough. Still, it hadn’t mattered much to her when she’d been setting the scene to entrap Hinata so… why should it matter now when everything was said and done and couldn’t be undone?

Even if she wanted to… which she _didn_ _’_ _t_.

It had been worth it.

Hadn’t it?

Still, this was where… where she was meant to go, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

“Hello?” She called, looking around expectantly, but the night remained stubbornly still and silent around her. The fires in the trashcans on either side of the entrance continued to burn, bright and warm, crackling and spitting against the darkening night as sparks drifted across the empty lot the venue occupied.

“Hello! Is anyone here? Hello! I’m here!”

Strange how her voice seemed both so terribly loud and so terrifyingly small in this lonely, deserted place as she stood there, shifting nervously from foot to foot, waiting and hoping for a response that never came.

There was only the distant sound of the ocean waves crashing against the rocks below and the sound of wood shifting in the cans as it charred and broke into pieces, falling to ash.

It was… just as it had been that night.

Ibuki had been so… quiet as she’d led her here. She’d been so eager to please when she’d taken her hand and told her that she needed her help, so blissfully content to follow her directions. They’d probably all assumed she’d had to tell Ibuki lie upon lie in order to bring her to this place, to get her to do what was necessary, but the reality was that all she’d ever needed to do was tell her the truth. Ibuki had been so eager to be of assistance that all she’d had to do was provide her with a task, a purpose, and she’d been glad to comply.

All she’d needed to tell her was that she wouldn’t die, not really, that she’d just wake up from the terrible dream she was having. Just that and Ibuki had nodded and followed her instructions to the letter as if nothing gave her greater satisfaction.

 _Yes, Ma_ _’_ _am!_

_Of course, Ma'am, I should just kneel right here no matter what, right?_

It had been so simple, so easy.

When she’d begun to remember everything as she sat at Komaeda’s bedside, her fingers twisted in his sweat-soaked sheets, it had been the painful things she’d remembered first.

Everything that had come before Hope’s Peak, those years of rejection, of always being a target, of never being worth keeping: those things had always been with her. They'd never left her so there was nothing worth thinking about there. Not as then. Not as minutes ticked into hours and the fever grew hotter with each passing moment and the day wore on.

No, as she sat at Komaeda's bedside, it had been Hope’s Peak and all that happened after that had emerged from the depths to remind her of every mortifying moment, every jab, every tease, every heartbreak.

The hope that it would be different there, that she would be different there, dashed across the floors on the very first day when someone tripped her on the way to class. Her panties had been saggy and worn, not cute at all, and the laughter in the hall as she fell and her skirt flipped up to show them off to what felt like half the school had been deafening. It wasn’t the last time she had such a fall, but after that she saved and used part of the stipend she received from the government to buy cute panties so that at least when she inevitably tripped over her own feet, or the feet of others, she wouldn’t be so… embarrassed, pathetic. There was still laughter, of course, but it was… more tolerable, because for every person who laughed, there was someone who flushed and looked away uncomfortably. It was easier to be okay with being embarrassed when you weren’t the only one. It was a lesson she’d learned early on and one that saw her through many of her worst moments those first years at Hope’s Peak.

But the world had seemed better, more hopeful during her final year. She had had friends, even if they weren't as close as they'd once been. She'd even made a new friend that year, who was beautiful and nice and smart and who she still kept expecting to tell her that their friendship had all been some sort of elaborate practical joke. And, most importantly, she had had Ibuki.

Her beloved’s demise, dismantling her body after, all those years in between and since of despair and murder, and it had still been _Ibuki_ she had thought of first though she couldn't think of why. Maybe it had just been seeing her like that again, like she’d been in the beginning, back when they’d first met, that made her remember what it had been like to find out that Ibuki hadn't really loved her, that Ibuki hadn't really cared for her at all.

"…but, I mean, don't you wonder why she's never touched you? I mean you're really pretty and when you care about someone... I mean, who doesn't think about doing it, right? It’s a bit… weird that she doesn’t, isn’t it?"

She bit her lip, knotting a finger in her hair and pulling absently, fiddling with the edge of her apron.

She had... had tried not to think about that much. Tried not to wonder why in the months they'd been... spending time together it had been nothing more than chaste kisses and handholding and snuggling as they lay together talking long into the night and never... never... anything else. Ibuki had said she didn't care about that sort of thing. That she didn't need... _that_.

So she'd tried... not to think about it, not to wonder... at the reasons. She could trust Ibuki. Trust that she was telling her the truth, that she loved her and so it didn’t matter that Ibuki didn’t love her like others had, that Ibuki didn’t look at her with lust in her eyes, that she never cared enough to punish her, it didn’t mean… it didn’t mean that she didn’t _see_ her, that she didn’t _care_ , Ibuki was just _different_ than all the others. _Better_. She was… nice. Nice and good and _kind_ and _sweet_ despite her wild appearance, so it… it didn’t matter that she wasn’t… that she just… wasn’t that sort of girl. She liked to be close, to hear about her day, to hold her and compose songs while tapping rhythms across her bandaged arms and that… and that was _fine_ , that was _nice_. That’s… that’s what she’d always _wanted_ , wasn’t it? Someone who would value her, who would look only at her, who would always forgive her, that was _all_ she’d ever wanted.

She didn’t need those… other things.

It didn’t matter that Ibuki had never made a move to make things more… intimate between them.

It didn’t matter that every time she tried to show that she was… willing, eager even, Ibuki looked so… uncomfortable.

“S-She j-just doesn’t w-want to. It’s not that w-weird,” she mumbled, knowing how weak the argument sounded, how pathetic, like an _excuse_.

Miss Enoshima smiled the wide, white smile that never failed to make her knees feel a little weak, and tilted her head to the side, patting at her shoulder gently. "Oh, geez, I'm so sorry! You look worried! I didn't mean to _worry_ you! I'm sure its nothing! She probably hasn't even _heard_ the rumors, you know. I mean, after all, Miss Mioda isn't the type to gossip, despite the way she looks. She’s actually very trustworthy, isn’t she?"

"R-rumors? W-what rumors?" Mikan stuttered, heart leaping into her throat, because there were… things. So many things she hadn’t… things she hadn’t wanted to tell her and even though Ibuki had always said she didn’t care about the past… she _might_ care if she _knew_. She might not be able to forgive her and… she wasn’t certain she could stand that.

Miss Enoshima’s eyes were so wide and she covered her mouth with one red nailed hand, "Oh, wow, I’ve made it worse haven’t I? Now I'm really, really sorry, I thought you knew or I never would have said anything. Can you ever forgive me?"

"O-of course," she managed with a tremulous smile, stomach churning like an uneasy, storm-swept sea. “I-I-If you could j-just…”

The bell rang out, a soft series of dings signaling the start of afternoon classes. Miss Enoshima grimaced apologetically as the last stragglers in the corridor darted into their respective classrooms, doors slamming shut behind them, “Look, just forget I said anything, it really wasn’t anything _bad_ , I’m sure. Just something about some doctor at an orphanage or something, so I’m sure it was all bullshit anyway… oh, gosh, sorry, pardon my language. I’ll see you later, okay?” She called back, waving a hand over her shoulder as she dashed off towards her own classroom, her booted heels clicking loudly across the tiled floor.

And the thought had eaten away at her through class and she found herself studying Ibuki's profile again and again as the day wore on. Her pale skin, the thick green and purple streaked rise of her mohawk, the way she sometimes looked back and caught her eye and smiled. It was something that usually made her feel warm, special, but that day it just made her feel... cold, uneasy. Then there was that creeping certainty that everyone in their entire class was looking at her, sneaking glances when her attention was elsewhere. That every whisper and muffled giggle and passed note were jokes at her expense. And every once in a while, she’d look up and find Miss Saionji staring at her with that nasty, knowing little smirk, the one she usually wore after she’d tripped her in the hallway and then pretended that she hadn’t and she knew... _knew_ that she was right.

After classes let out for the day, she rushed tp the bathroom, slamming into an empty stall and locking it behind her. She pulled her feet up off the floor tucking her hunched body back against the tank.

She listened quietly to the snap and tap of shoes squeaking across the tile floor as people came and went, toilets flushing, water running, the inane chatter of other girls making plans and trading comments about their days.

No one spoke about her and she’d been relieved.

Eventually people stopped coming and going, distracted by dinner or clubs or friends and the bathroom was finally, blissfully silent and she could finally breathe again.

She eased her cramped legs down off the seat, flopping down across the seat with a sigh of heartfelt relief, letting her head drop back against the wall, exhausted.

Hours later, after dinner had come and gone and most people had returned to their rooms for the night, she’d found Ibuki downstairs in the laundry room sitting on the table, rapping out a rhythm with one hand and as she hummed a tune and jotted down notes in her dog-eared notebook with the other. A load of sudsy laundry tumbled and churned in the washer before her. She glanced up when Mikan came in, her small, contented smile turning wide and brilliant as her gaze settled on her, “Hey, hey there, Mikan, Mikan! Ibuki was just thinking about you. Do you like avocados? ”

“W-were you?” Mikan managed, her fingers tightening on her bag. “I, um, I-I’ve never had one, a-actually.”

“Yeah? They’re really creamy and rich and great with toast. Ibuki has had this song in her head all day trying to get out and it’s gotta be about you, because I kept picturing your face and it’s like… BOOM and the rhythm’s like this, right? Kind of ba-ba-cha-ta-la and I was just putting some lyrics down for it, but Ibuki was thinking she’d call it ‘Avocadoes are Awesome in Springtime’, but maybe that’s a little long? What do you think? Is it a little long?”

Mikan felt her cheeks warm and she knotted a finger into her hair, pulling at the strands, “T-T-That’s…”

“Oh! Oh! You look sad. Are you sad? Why are you sad? What happened?” Ibuki commented suddenly, hopping down from the table and hurrying over to stare at her face, uncomfortably close. She’d taken to wearing contacts lately and drawing different designs across her cheekbones each day. On that particular day her eyes had been the green of new leaves with cat slit pupils and she’d drawn in a pattern of tiny golden stars across her cheeks, curving up to her forehead over her right eye and in a trailing down her left cheek. It made her look strange and otherworldly, like she didn’t belong and it always made Mikan feel nervous, because she’d heard the way people talked about Ibuki sometimes, the way they looked at her, like she was weird and dangerous and kind of crazy. Ibuki never seemed to mind much, but she knew it had to bother her. Of course it did. “What can Ibuki do? To make it better?”

“W-w-w-why don’t you want to have sex?”

She immediately felt as if all the blood was running both too her face and away from it simultaneously. She hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, she hadn’t even meant to bring it up at all, not really, but… but she didn’t understand it and she couldn’t seem to shake the idea that Ibuki might look at her and think she wasn’t… _clean_ … or that, maybe, she just didn’t really like her at all and it was….

Ibuki frowned, flinching a little around the eyes as if Mikan had slapped her rather than just asked her a simple question. “I… don’t…” she hesitated, as if trying to choose her words carefully, delicately. Soften the blow. “Ibuki doesn’t need all that.” She replied, twisting her fingers together as she eased back a little bit, still frowning, still uncertain. “Ibuki thought… Ibuki thought Mikan understood her.”

“W-well, I don’t, I… is it because of what people are saying about m-me? I mean, I’m not… I’ve been t-tested you know! I run tests every few months j-j-just to make s-sure that everything, everything is… and I-I’m fine. Y-y-y-y-you don’t have to worry that you’ll catch something and,” she dashed her hands across her cheeks, swiping angrily at the tears there. She didn’t want… she hadn’t meant to cry, it was just… just… she’d thought Ibuki wouldn’t… wouldn’t _judge_ her, that Ibuki would _understand_ , that Ibuki would _forgive_ her.

Ibuki bit her lip, hugging arms around her chest, “Ibuki isn’t…” she trailed off her voice so quiet in the cavernous room, as if she were saying something so much more intimate than she was. “Ibuki doesn’t care about any of that.”

“Then why? Because it’s… it’s _weird_ , isn’t it? You love me, but you won’t… you don’t… so it’s _me_ , isn’t it? It’s something about me? You don’t… _want_ me, do you? Do you? You could have me, any way you wanted and I… but you don’t. You never look at me like you…” And she knew she was being unreasonable, but it was like some dam had burst within her and all her doubts and fears were pouring out, given form and shape and she couldn’t stop the flood. She couldn’t stop it, because she didn’t _understand_ , she didn’t understand how you could love someone and not want to be _with_ them, to leave your mark upon them. She _knew_ what love was. She’d had love leave bruises and cuts across her arms and had it knotted in her hair and splashed across her thighs and she knew, _knew_ , that if love was passion, was caring enough to show it, to make your mark so that everyone would _know_ , would know than Ibuki… Ibuki….

“Weird… huh? You think so?” Ibuki said slowly, looking so… vulnerable despite her messy mohawk and her piercings and her flashy make-up. “You want Ibuki to touch you like that? Like that?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Mikan answered, without the slightest hesitation, breathing a sigh of relief, because Ibuki finally _understood_. She wanted Ibuki’s touch branded across her skin, proof that she meant something to her, proof she could feel and see and _know_ , even when she was alone. And now… now it was out there, hanging in the air between them and even… even if Ibuki didn’t want to it… it would still be better than this… this _waiting_ and _wondering_ and _doubting_. Instead, she would _know_. She would _know_ that Ibuki would think of her, would remember her, would linger and stay with her even when they were apart. Ibuki wouldn’t leave her, _couldn_ _’_ _t_ leave her behind because they’d always be part of each other and she would….

“Okay,” Ibuki murmured, breath shuddering out into the air between them as she turned away, back to her laundry. “That’s… okay. If that's... that's... I... I'll come by tonight. Tonight. That’s… all right? Right?”

“Yes, o-of course! I’ll be ready,” she smiled, tugging at her hair as she hurried from the room before Ibuki could change her mind, before she could take it back. It would… it would be okay now. Everything would be okay now.

Ibuki _loved_ her.

Ibuki loved _her_.

But she _hadn’t_.

Not really.

She should have known the moment she had shown up at her door.

She'd come late, so late that Mikan had been sure she wouldn't show and when she had she’d looked strange and she’d been quiet, both during and after, so serious and pale beneath her makeup. So different from the carefree girl who was always reaching to express herself in a thousand different ways, the girl with screaming music in her soul.

She’d seemed so… _different_.

But she hadn’t noticed and she hadn’t cared, because they were together and that meant everything, silenced all her fears.

She hadn’t noticed that there’d been no singing or tapping or playing or silliness. Just… just Ibuki’s mouth and hands and fingers, playing across her body, undressing her in the dark, quick and efficient, and bringing her again and again until she was a shivering, quivering mess.

It hadn’t even occurred to her until after that Ibuki had barely let her touch her or even look at her, really, since she’d switched off the lights almost the moment she arrived. That she’d been quiet throughout besides the occasional question about whether she was doing something right or if something felt good, strangely detached, like someone taking a survey.

She just… hadn’t noticed.

She'd just been so... happy, so relieved, that it hadn't even occurred to her that something might be wrong. Why would anything be wrong? They had sex, hadn't they? It had been... really nice and she finally knew... _knew_ that Ibuki loved her. Really loved her.

She’d fallen asleep at some point afterwards, sheet wound round her body and sweat drying between her breasts and when she had woken up, some time in the middle of the night, she’d heard the soft hiss of water muffled by the the closed bathroom door and Ibuki's voice singing against the flow, melancholy and soft, nothing like the joyful, lively screeching rasps of sound Ibuki usually enjoyed.

That was probably when she'd known.

She’d knocked on the door, tentative and shy, dread swirling in her stomach like a dead goldfish in a clogged toilet, and the water had shut off along with the sound and it had felt so… _final_. Her heart seemed to be turning and flopping anxiously as she shifted from foot to foot, twisting fingers in her hair as she waited for an answer, waited for the door to open, waited for the shoe to drop.

It seemed like she stood there forever, but it was probably only seconds later that the door was thrown open to reveal a dripping wet Ibuki, her long stripe of dark hair plastered across her neck and shoulders, her face and body bare except for the silver shine of her piercings. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot as if the contacts had irritated them or… or…

“Ibuki can only be herself. Herself. She loves you, but… she can’t be what you want. She can’t be what you want.” She repeated the last softly, but it didn’t really soften the blow, it didn’t make it better.

She heard the words, but she also heard the truth that Ibuki didn’t say.

 _I won't_ _give you the things you want, I won't_ _give you what you need, because what you need doesn't_ _matter, because_ you _don't_ _matter._

 _I_ _'_ _ll never forgive you for making me feel like I had to do this. You're_ _a terrible person, an awful, disgusting person who I'll_ _never, ever forgive._

“Y-Y-You can go,” she whispered in reply and Ibuki’s eyes widened as if she were surprised, as if she hadn’t expected it to be so easy to severe the ties between them. “Y-Y-Y-You don’t have to stay. It’s fine. Just _go_.”

"Mikan..."

"I s-said you could _g-go_!" The sound was more screech than speech and she slapped a hand against her mouth as soon as the words had left her. Apologies already gathering and spilling from her lips, more reflex than sincerity, muffled by her clasped hands.

Ibuki just nodded, brushing past her into the room. She gathered her clothes in silence. Slipping into those discarded garments and disappeared out the door like a ghost, already just another memory; just another person who had left her behind, another person who had rejected her, who couldn't love her or forgive her for not being enough.

Her beloved had been so kind the next day, immediately taking her aside during breakfast as if she knew that something was wrong, as if she really _cared_. Her voice had been so gentle and the first words out of her mouth to her had been apologies and regret, assuming she might be the cause of Mikan’s distress.

It had been so… _nice_.

Her beloved had always been such a wonderful listener. Always quick to absolve her of blame, to tell her it wasn’t her fault, that nothing was her fault. It was Ibuki who was at fault for not loving her enough. It was the other girls who were at fault for gossiping about her, about them. _They_ were to blame, not her. Never her. She was only trying to be _happy_.

She _deserved_ to be happy.

She _deserved_ to be with her beloved.

And Ibuki… Ibuki could make that happen. Again. If it hadn’t been for Ibuki she might never have gotten to know the perfection that was her beloved, might never have fallen in love with her at all. And Ibuki could bring them all back together. It had been a great plan, she _knew_ it had been, much better than the original plan of having Ibuki kill Mister Komaeda in his sleep. To lie to her and have her smother him with a pillow or strangle him with the sash from his robe. Though that plan also had had its merits. That sort of death… was too _quick_. She wanted to see his despair, to watch that infernal hope of his die in the trap she’d set for him.

For all of them.

Maybe that had been her mistake, once all was said and done, but it hadn’t seemed like one at the time as she’d held the door for Ibuki and escorted her into Titty Typhoon. As she gave her instruction and had her help set the stage for their little drama to play out against. She could have done it after, maybe _should_ have done it after, but she hadn’t.

She’d _liked_ the idea of Ibuki helping her get away with it.

She’d thought she had all the time in the world, all night if she wanted, and it had made her pulse race, to have so much power over someone.

Especially someone like Ibuki.

Ibuki who had always been so concerned about what others thought of her, of them, though she pretended not to be. Just a sheep though she pretended not to be. And she’d wanted to make that feeling last just a little longer. So it had been a long while after they’d entered the venue before she’d finished her preparations and finally wrapped the rope around Ibuki’s long, beautiful neck. Braced her knee against her back and drawn the rope tighter and tighter until her last pitiful, choking, gasping, wretched breaths were expelled.

It felt like fate even as tears pricked the corner of her eyes. Ibuki was finally what she needed her to be. Compliant. Willing.

It had been… _perfect_.

Well, it _would_ have been perfect.

If _she_ hadn’t shown up and ruined _everything_.

She supposed, in a way, she’d been lucky. Lucky that Ibuki had been dying so quietly, without even a peep of protest. So quietly that it had allowed her to hear the soft sound of someone fiddling with the door handle. Having chosen to strangle her on the side of the stage near the big column had been mere coincidence, but it had allowed her to let her body fall to the stage while she stepped back to hide behind that giant column. Allowed her to observe as that… that… _bitch_ … ruined everything just by showing up.

It had felt _good_ to think the word and when she whispered it under her breath into the silence of the darkened parking lot she found that it felt even better to say it aloud.

“ _Bitch_.”

The logs crackled and shifted in their barrels and she swayed back and forth humming and remembering.

She’d stood there, quivering in the relative darkness, out of sight as Miss Saionji had burst through the doors. Eased around the pillar to peek at her when moments went by with no sound but the heavy door banging shut behind her. For a moment, she’d wondered if Miss Saionji had simply turned around and left, if she needed to dash after her in the hopes of stopping her before she started screaming for help. But, she was just… standing there, clearly surprised to find the lights on, the heater running and the ladder in the center of the stage. Perhaps simply unable to comprehend what it all meant. Either way she stood there in the center of the room, clutching her kimono closed and looking around furtively.

“Hey! Who’s here?!” Saionji asked finally, the faintest note of fear in her voice as she stepped inside, clutching her hopelessly messy kimono around her tiny body. She crept towards the stage a step at a time, her gaze intent on where Ibuki lay, not quite dead just yet, but unconscious and well on her way. “Mioda? Is that you, music dork? What are you doing here? Don’t fall asleep in random places, dumbass. You’re supposed to be at the hospital, you stupid idiot. Don’t tell me those total morons can’t even manage to keep one sick girl from running off. What good does it do to quarantine you people if they just let the sick ones run off? I can’t believe that pigshit idiot can’t even do this right.”

Ibuki stirred weakly, pushing herself slowly up off the stage floor with trembling limbs

“Geez, hold on, you’re _hopeless_ ,” Saionji grumbled as she clamored awkwardly up onto the stage, scowling and holding her kimono closed with one hand, while she used the other to gather and bunch it up around her knees as if it might fall off or open at any moment.

She could see the moment Saionji noticed the rope drooping around Ibuki’s neck in the way her spine stiffened, the way a scream began to wheeze its way out of her throat.

But it hardly mattered at that point.

It was too little, too late, and it was the easiest thing in the world to step out onto the stage behind her, to slip close as she stared down at Ibuki in shock. “Wh-Wh-What the heck, Mioda?!” She managed, stumbling back away from Ibuki and right into Mikan’s chest.

She’d felt a pang of despair when she’d prepared to kill Ibuki. When she’d drawn the rope tight around her hands, hands that were carefully tucked inside gloves that would protect them from both the burn of the threads and keep the traces of herself left behind to a minimum, and slipped it over Ibuki’s head, pulled it taunt as she tucked her knee against her back and began applying the pressure that would eventually kill her. She was certain she’d feel the same once the deed was finally done.

She’d always liked Ibuki.

She truly had even after… everything.

But it had been for the sake of her beloved and it had needed to be done.

However, when she’d drawn the scalpel from her apron - the one she’d told herself she’d brought along ‘just in case’, but he no intention of using – she'd felt nothing at all as she slid an arm around Saionji’s waist and pressed the blade against her throat. “I-I might be mistaken, but I believe you’re now regretting every cruel thing you have ever said to me.” Mikan murmured as Saionji stilled.

She could practically feel her pulse racing in the tremor of false bravado in her voice, "I always knew there was something wrong with _you_."

"Did you?” She murmured, pressing the point of the scalpel just hard enough to prick her skin, to draw a hiss of pain and Saionji jerked in her grasp, trying to break free while still trying to hold her kimono closed. She felt strangely numb as she raised her gaze to Ibuki who was standing centerstage as if waiting for her cue. “Miss Mioda, w-would you please go grab plastic wrap or duct tape, whichever they have is fine, and a bucket from the supply closet?”

Ibuki nodded, untangling herself from the rope and stumbling off the stage in the direction of the supply closet.

“Wh-wh-what the… What do you think you’re doing, Mioda? Don’t you realize this total nutjob just tried to do? Ru-" Saionji managed, indignation warring with disbelief, before braking off in a hiss as Mikan dug the scalpel in just a little deeper, worrying at the pinprick she’d already made in her throat.

If Ibuki had an answer for that she couldn’t voice it and she toddled off in the direction of the supply closet despite Saionji’s objections. “I-It would p-probably be best if you kept q-quiet, don’t you think?”

Saionji was panting, seething, in her arms, “Like it’s going to matter in the end. Who do you think you’re kidding? I’m not getting out of here alive.”

“T-that is t-true, I’m afraid and you’ll have to p-pardon me for pointing out the obvious, b-but t-there are far worse things I could do t-than j-just kill you, you know.”

“Here’s your bucket and duct tape, ma’am,” Ibuki rasped, her voice barely a whisper and her neck already red and bruising, raw from the marks the ropes had left behind.

“I always knew you were just the worst,” Saionji snarled, renewing her struggles, pulling and kicking and shoving, no longer concerned about her kimono in the least. She wriggled like an eel in her grasp and it had become harder and harder to keep a grip on her.

“S-stop, hold still! I can’t-“

It was almost a surprise when she felt the scalpel slip, sliding deep across her carotid arteries. Blood spurted out into the air before them and she was pretty sure she’d choked out a startled laugh as Saionji gasped and fought to raise her hands, to staunch the flow of blood.

“The bucket, Ibuki, we can’t make too much of a mess or everything will be ruined,” she managed, breathless, tilting Saionji forward as best she could so the steady stream of blood that had begun to flow down Saionji’s bare chest and trickle down her own arm flowed into the bucket Ibuki shoved under her with a rasping ‘yes, ma’am’.

“Y-you really should have stayed in your room, Miss Saionji,” she mumbled as blood splattered into the bucket, across the stage and Saionji’s slippered feet as her struggles weakened and ceased.

 _Such a mess_ , she’d thought, sighing as she wiped the scalpel across the collar of Saionji’s kimono before slipping it back into her apron. But what else could she have done? Her plan would never have worked with a witness. She’d need something to act as a compress to keep any additional bleeding a minimum. Goodness, there was a lot of work to be done if she was going to salvage the situation. Ibuki alone would have been so simple a thing, beautiful and perfect, a nearly inescapable trap, but Saionji had just had to _spoil_ it.

Just like she spoiled everything.

It was her own fault she was dead.

She laid Saionji’s limp body aside, careful to position her on her, carefully pulling her kimono out of the way, allowing what little blood was left to fall now that her heart had stopped, to dribble and pool on the stage instead as that would be easier to clean up later. The clean up would take some time, but assuming no one else interrupted she certainly had time enough to get it done.

A plan was beginning to take shape in her mind centering around that silly movie Monokuma had made her watch and certainly it lacked the magnificent simplicity of her original plan, but what choice was there but to adapt?

“Miss Mioda, I’m going to need your assistance.”

“Is Hiyoko going to be okay, ma’am? She has lost quite a bit of blood..”

“Of course. I told you, this is all just to make sure we all wake up from the dream so what happens here doesn’t matter at all.”

“Yes, ma’am, you did say that, ma’am.”

“Very good. Now hand me that duct tape, you’re going to help me tape her to this pillar.”

And this… this actually worked out _better_ , didn’t it? This would cause far more despair so it would be a far more fitting tribute to her beloved, wouldn’t it?

And, of course, they’d forgive once they understood her reasons. Once they understood why she had this, all of this.

That she’d done it for _love_ …

For _her_ …

For them all…

They’d _have_ to forgive her.

Once they finally _understood_.

And, of course, she would explain, she would tell them the truth so they could forgive her before the end, but not until they had chosen incorrectly, not until they’d chosen _him_.

Once they were all to be executed then she would finally be able to tell them the truth about everything. She’d tell them and they would understand and they would forgive her and they’d all be together like it was meant to be.

This was what they were meant for, wasn’t it?

This had been their purpose….

Only…

 _Only_ _…_

It hadn’t worked out that way, had it?

Because of _him_.

No, _them_.

They were supposed to be her friends, weren’t they? They were supposed to believe in her, weren’t they? Hadn’t Hinata been concerned for her? Hadn’t he said he _cared_? Weren’t they supposed to be _friends_?

And yet… and yet… when it had come down to it….

Saying that he wanted to believe her and then accusing her like that….

Hinata was just the _worst_.

The _worst_ of the _worst_.

Who was he anyway?

He wasn’t one of them, was he?

She hadn’t really thought about it before. Not while she was busy planning and scheming and reveling in the despair she was feeling and causing, but… he wasn’t one of their number.

Not one she’d known and she knew… she knew everyone, didn’t she?

So, why couldn’t she remember him?

If he hadn’t been one of them, but he had been there on the island with them… who did that make him? Who? A spy? And who was _she_? She didn’t know her either, didn’t know her face, but it was Hinata, Hinata that troubled her most.

She’d wanted to ask, as she stood there watching the tide turn, watching them all vote against her, but she hadn’t wanted to spoil things for her beloved. She was certain her beloved had planned for unwanted interlopers, after all. She believed in her utterly and completely. She would be with her beloved and that was all that mattered. What did she care about spies and lies and unwelcome intruders? She would be with her beloved again at last….

Only she wasn’t, was she?

No.

_No._

Somehow everything had gone _wrong_ and she was alone. Alone and still… still stuck on the island, abandoned and outcast.  
  
Were they out there somewhere?

Had she survived the execution?

Had there even _been_ an execution?

Were they out there somewhere _enjoying_ themselves? Having fun? Laughing at the thought of her exiled and alone? Had they already forgotten all about her?

He said they were _friends_.

He said he _cared_.

But if he cared, if he _really_ cared, then where was he?

Why wasn’t he _here_?

Why was she all _alone_?

She knotted her fingers in her hair, pulling, sharp and angry. Was this a dream? Was this reality? Why was she alone? Why? Why? _Why?_

She’d been so….

She blinked slowly at the night sky, bright with stars, surprised to find that she was standing on the cliff’s edge looking out over the dark, moonlit water rather than at the entrance to Titty Typhoon where she’d been a moment before.

When had she…?

The moon was very bright and seemed very close.

“Where are you?” She asked the night sky, unsure if she was speaking to her beloved… or to him.

She felt a hand settle against her back, delicate and petite, a quick jab, just there and then gone. She tumbled forward, arms pin wheeling wildly as she tipped forward over the edge and fell. Her mouth gaped open in a silent scream as she plunged face first towards the rocks below.

There was a single shining moment of crushing pain and then everything was black.

Then she was waking, startled and stumbling, falling out of her seat onto the dark, sticky floor. The projector spun to life, snapping and crackling in the otherwise silent room, spilling its light across the screen.

The movie began and she was…

Alone.

 _Maybe you_ deserve _to be alone._

And that was by far the most important thing and the very worst thing.

_No one wants you._

Had it been a dream?

_No one has forgiven you._

And if it had, what part?

Had it been her life before Hope’s Peak? Seeking approval and affection and finding nothing that lasted. Being abandoned and ignored time and again, discovering every time that she thought she’d found a home that her very existence was unnecessary, unneeded, unwanted.

That… that was all she’d really wanted.

All she’d ever really wanted.

Just to be everything to someone and to have someone who was everything to her. To have someone who would look only at her, someone that would think _only_ of her, _need_ only her.

She’d discovered early on that if she wanted their affection, their attention, she needed to make herself useful, to be what they needed her to be rather than just herself. So she did. She formed herself as if from clay to become whatever was required, but it was never enough. Never what she needed because it had always left her cold, empty, and ultimately unhappier than she’d been before. Rough hands beneath her skirt, cigarette burns on her thighs, a well-placed slap or kick. Bruises blooming like flowers across the delicate skin of her thighs and wrists. That was what love was. Love was pain and permanence. Love was having a purpose, a use, being necessary. Being needed. Being _seen_. Love was being kept and not given away like an old hat, gone out of style. It was being noticed and known.

It was not being _alone_.

So this… this….

Maybe she had fallen asleep in this place, this gross theater with its sticky floors, and dreamed everything that had come after. The Despair disease that had inflicted Mister Komaeda and made him a teller of lies, made Miss Mioda gullible and so achingly vulnerable, turned Miss Owari into a frightened child and then, finally, inflicted her with the ability to see the _truth_.

Maybe nothing she thought she remembered was real.

Maybe it was nothing more than a terrible dream.

Maybe she didn’t have a beloved at all.

Maybe it had only ever been just her.

_Alone._

She shoved to her feet, legs unsteady and aching just as before, and ran from the theater. Slammed through the theater doors and out onto the island.

Bright, so bright, too bright, like running into an oven. She had to close her eyes, slap a hand over them to shield them from such terrible brightness after so long spent in the dark. She had to stop and catch her breath, wheezing as she bent over.

It was minutes before she could cry out for _him_ … for _them_.

“Everyone! Where are you?! This isn’t funny! Mister Hinata?! Miss Mioda?! Someone! Anyone?”

There was no answer.

Just the endless sound of those ocean waves crashing against the shore.

Those terrible ocean waves.

“This isn’t funny! I don’t want to play anymore!” She called, but there was still nothing and no one to complain to, no one to care.

No one left to understand.

No one left to forgive her.

No one left to see the truth behind it all and how utterly _pointless_ their time on the island had truly been.

There was no despair quite like the despair of knowing you'd made your own bed and had been left to lie in it alone.

**+++**

**DAY THREE**  
-continued-

She knocked again, quiet and insistent. He'd been too quiet for too long. Even though he’d said… he’d said he was tired, he hadn’t made any move to open the door though he’d stopped calling for _him_ at least.

Still. He’d been unsupervised for too long. What if he'd hurt himself again?

She needed to check the attachment site, make sure it was healing properly, that the infection had....

No, that wasn't right, was it?

They were on the island. Here he was young and whole and his hands were still his own.

…For the moment at least.

Oops.

She was so forgetful, but she was sure he’d forgive her. It wasn’t her fault after all.

She'd just been on her own for so long...

So many days in this awful, lonely place, screaming and screaming and no one around to hear only...

Only sometimes it seemed like there _was_.

Sometimes there had been someone to punish her and sometimes there had been someone to praise her and always, always, always there was her beloved whispering in her ear.

Whispering all the things she needed to hear, to know.

All the things she’d forgotten.

"Mister Komaeda! Please answer me," she punctuated each word by pounding on the door hard enough to shake the cheap wood in its frame.

“You're going to have to go in there and get him, you know that, right?” She commented, leaning back against the wall between the doors, red nails tip tapping against the wall. “You can always beg forgiveness later if you want. He'll understand you had to do it once he remembers. Once he's himself again. You're not trying to hurt him, after all, you're just trying to wake him up, right? It's for his own good and I’m sure he’ll thank you later."

"Yes," she murmured, twisting the doorhandle, jiggling it. “He’s sick and I’m going to make him well again. I’m going to help him.”

Locked.

But she’d known that, hadn’t she?

She’d tried the handle before, hadn’t she?

Hadn’t she?

"You still have the keys, don’t you?"

"Keys?" She echoed, trying to remember if these doors had locked, if she'd ever seen keys for them, picked them up, tucked them away and found she couldn’t.

Though if her beloved said she had then that must be right.

Her beloved would never lie to her.

So it wasn't really surprising when she found the thick ring of keys tucked away in her apron. Dozens and dozens of keys on a big round steel ring.

The matron at the orphanage had had a ring of keys just like it.

Keys that clattered and clanked as the Matron had locked up each room for the night and again when she unlocked them in the morning.

The keys that had sometimes opened her door in the middle of night had never clattered or clanked. There’d only ever been the click and slide and snap of the tumblers yielding to the press of a single key.

She stared at the keys, wondering which one would fit the lock.

There was a oversized, red key in the middle of the jumble labeled ‘ONCALL’ in big black letters.

“Oh, yes, I suppose you might be the one,” she murmured sliding the red key home and twisting it in the lock. She smiled, giggling nervously as she felt the tumblers click and yield. “Ready or not, Mister Komaeda, here I come."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little nervous about this one because it's kind of... yeah. So much Mikan. And while this story was never meant to be just about Komaeda and Hinata making eyes at each other, it's kind of been very much all about them for a few chapters. 
> 
> **Mikan's Perspective:** Of events is just that, Mikan's perspective and obviously not altogether closely tied with reality. Also, the next chapter will deal with the time spent at the Hospital as well as the remaining time between where this chapter leaves off with Mikan on day two and where she's at both physically and mentally on day three. 
> 
> **Ibuki:** She's all about change and experimentation so I assume she was constantly altering her look based on how she was feeling or new things she saw or because it was Tuesday. I think her in-game look just happened to be what she was into her first day of school. (See below for further theories about in-game appearance.)
> 
>  **The Original Island Dress:** I think most people were dressed on the Island as they were when they first attended Hope's Peak. The exception to this is, Komaeda who couldn't remember what he was wearing and so his brain just ended up filling in what he'd been wearing the day they put him in the tank.
> 
>  **The Third Chapter Murder Case:** Let's just go ahead and get it out there... the murder case in the third chapter is super sloppy. I mean, seriously, there are plot holes big enough to drive a Buick through. It's really just a hot mess. It had this great set-up and a lot of promise and then just sort of squandered it in the name of getting rid of two people at once and neither the sequence of events nor the conclusions in the trial really make a lot of sense. Since I like trying to pretzel canon into working for me, however, I'm kind of using what was there and trying to construct something sensible out of it. I assume, particularly with this case, that the order of events as detailed by Hajime in game is, to an extent, false as Mikan never confirms the sequence of events and a lot of things were generally just guesses given the knowledge and evidence the group actually had on hand and their inability to independently confirm much of it. And I mean, realistically, Hajime doesn't have to be *right* about any of that, all he has to do is convince the majority of folks in the room that he is. Getting the vote to swing the way you want is the true objective. That's just the nature of the trial even though the first two games don't frame it that way. So I don't think that events as laid out in the trial really need to be viewed as gospel unless the perpetuator confirms it or the evidence leaves no room for doubt and, even then, there's usually still some wiggle room. 
> 
> **School Year(s):** I think I've touched on this a bit before, but I chose to go with the idea that the participants in D2 were scattered between two different years at Hope's Peak. So, Mikan, Hiyoko, Ibuki, Mahiru, and Sato were all in their third year while Nagito, Gundham, Sonia, Kazuichi, Kazuryuu, and Peko (Hajime would also have been in this year, just in the reserve class) were all in the second year with the first year being comprised of the participants in D1.
> 
>  **Timeline:** How Mikan's timeline matches up against Komaeda's timeline is something that will be explored more pointedly in the next chapter.


	10. Neither Here, Nor There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one descends into madness and another begins to surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hey, so, this chapter is pretty unpleasant and once again super Mikan-focused. The next chapter is Komaeda-tastic though also pretty unpleasant. Please, once again, take note of the tags and mind the day and time notations. 
> 
> It's all downhill from here, folks.

_“Reality is frequently inaccurate.”_  
― Douglas Adams, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe 

 **+++**  
**DAY THREE**  
-continued-

  
The door hit the wall with a bang that echoed, loud and sudden, through the empty room.

All the windows were open, rain pushed in by the storm outside soaking the disused equipment, boxes and bed. The light airy curtains billowed wildly, whipped about by the wind, lashing against the dividers and soggy boxes piled haphazardly around the room. Rain soaked the sheets of the bed she’d once shared with that beautiful, treacherous boy. The blankets and pillows had all been shoved out of the way into a messy, haphazard pile at the foot of the bed as if to make room for someone to kneel in front of the window behind the bed.

One of the pillows had been gutted, the feathers and fluff from inside scattered and stuck to the floor and walls.

Water was splattered across the floor, smearing the bloody footprints there, soggy bits of white paper and fluff were strewn haphazardly through the mess. A bright flash of light lit the room as thunder crashed, loud and close, startling her back against the wall, her heart beating a frantic rhythm in her throat.

For all the traces of himself he'd left behind, there was no sign of Komaeda at all. 

She was alone.

_Again._

He had been there. She  _knew_ he had been there, trapped like a rat in this room and yet now… gone.

Hiding, maybe?

She dropped to her knees to look beneath the bed.

Nothing but shadows, scattered papers and puddled water.

Her gaze darted frantically around the small room as she clamored awkwardly to her feet, looking for some place, any place, where he might be hiding.

But there was nothing to hide in or behind. The room wasn’t truly empty, of course, as there were plenty of storage boxes and equipment stacked about, but there was none so big that he could easily hide in or behind them. Most of the piles had already been tipped over, spilled haphazardly across the floor, as if he’d been searching for something.

She wondered vaguely what he’d been looking for and whether he’d found it.

Where had he gone?  
  
He was supposed to be here. How was she supposed to help him if she couldn’t catch him?

How?

_How?_

Frustration became a howl on her tongue as she hobbled over to the largest stack of boxes still standing and pushed them over to send the paper within spilling and fluttering across the damp floor with a satisfying crash.

Where was he? 

Where?

_Where?_

Half-hidden behind the tumbled pile of boxes she saw a grate lying on the floor beside the dark narrow hole where it had been wrenched from the wall. It was a small opening, not nearly big enough to fit a body, even one as slim as Komaeda’s, but it wasn't the hole that concerned her. It was the grate that had really caught her attention.

The metal gleamed dully in the dim emergency lighting where it lay in a shallow pool of blood, wet and dark against the white tile, the stain of it soaking into the papers that she’d scattered across it. Careless droplets had been dribbled across the floor, splattered all the way across the room to the rumpled, sheets and blankets on the bed, across the stacks of boxes and the walls behind. The more she looked at it, the more she realized that the room actually looked like a deeply unhygienic, three-dimensional Pollack painting.

There was just… so much blood and it was  _everywhere_  as if he cut himself and then spun in circles to see how much of a mess he could make.

It was… such a _filthy_ thing to do.

Why would he do that? 

_Why?_

Had he killed himself? Used that sharp-edged grate to slit his pale throat? Was he even now waking up somewhere else? Where would he wake up? Where had he been when he wasn’t fooling around with Hinata at the resort, no doubt mocking her despair, her desperation, her loneliness? Where had he been before she’d found him wandering the halls of the hospital talking to himself? Would he go there again? Would he be able to find his way back to her? He was so…  _damaged_ , so clearly in need of help and care, another victim shattered by Hinata Hajime’s careless hands and casual cruelty?

“I don’t understand,” she murmured, smearing the toe of her broken-heeled boot through the puddle. “Why would he do this?”

Hadn’t he let her in? Hadn’t he wanted her help?

Oh, no, that was right... she'd had a key, hadn't she?

Still.

He should want her help. She was only trying to help after all.

“You’ve always been stubborn,” she murmured, answering her own question as she yanked at her hair irritably.

He must still be clinging to  _him_ like a frizzy-haired barnacle, attaching himself to whatever fragile hope Hinata represented. It was pathetic, wasn’t it?  
  
“I can’t help you, Mr. Komaeda. I can’t help you if you won’t let me in.” 

And that was all she wanted, really, just a chance to  _help_  him. To help him get better, to restore him to the person he truly was meant to be, to save him from this place, from this cheap façade. To save him, to save them, from being the wretched, sad people they’d been before she’d come into their lives and shown them the glory of letting go, the ecstasy of submitting to despair.

She had a… a…  _responsibility_  to save him from  _Hinata_  and all his terrible  _lies_.

She’d just have to find him. That was all there was to it. To figure out what had happened and track him down. Maybe… maybe this was just… just game. Hide and go seek again, maybe. Komaeda had liked games, hadn’t he? Or had that been her beloved? Or maybe she’d been the one who had liked them?

Seemed a silly thing to forget.

She laughed, a loud, abrupt sound, quickly muffled against the back of her hand. She wasn’t even sure why it was funny or what was funny… what had she been thinking about? Something… something…

“Does it matter?” Her beloved inquired, voice soft.

“No, not really,” she answered, gaze vague, fixed loosely on the blood as she dipped the toe of her boot in the largest puddle, smeared it across the tile.

Nothing mattered really, except finding him. They’d all be her in the end, so what did anything else matter beyond that, she only had to do what she was told and everything would be as it should be, as it was meant to be.

She’d never have to be alone again.

Blood on the tile, on the edge of grate, puddled and now smeared across the floor. Had he really been that desperate?

Why?

Why couldn’t he understand? He should have understood better than anyone, shouldn’t he?

After all, it had been his idea, hadn’t it?

Hadn’t it?

If not his… whose?

“Fickle,” her beloved answered, ragged nails tip-taping against her cheek, fingers tugging at her hair. “You can’t rely on Komaeda. He’s not like you. No one is as devoted to me as you are.” 

Her face flushed with pleasure at those words, “Oh, I… yes, thank you, I… thank you.”

Her shoulders lift in a shrug, her voice a soft, familiar comfort that echoed within her, around her. “Not enough blood, is there? So, he’s not dead. Probably thought he could fool you with this cheap show. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” she murmured, smiling dreamily as she looked over the room again with new eyes. The trail of blood, the tiny hole in the wall where the grate had been, the open window, the rain splattered across the floor. “Of course, you’re always right, beloved. I just have to find him.”

How hadn’t she seen that before? Silly. It seemed so obvious now. It was the only real option, wasn’t it? Everything else was just… a red herring.

Sly, sneaky Komaeda Nagito.

He thought he could trick her.

How  _mean_.

How very like  _him_.

And how fortunate that she had her beloved to help her when she couldn’t see the truth right before her eyes. It was so easy to forget what was _important_ , to lose her way when she was alone, but that was then.

That was then and now… now she would never have to be alone again.

  
+++  
**DAY TWO**  
-continued-

It had been such a horrible trick, she decided, flipping the switch on the rollercoaster and sliding into one of the empty cars as it rolled past.

She didn't bother with the safety restraint.

What was the  _point_ , after all?

It wasn't as if she could die here. Not really. So what was the point in pretending fatal injury meant anything beyond a flash of momentary pain? Hardly anything worth dwelling on and at least it meant she felt something even if it was just a few moments of blissful oblivion before cold reality settled around her once more.

She’d never really thought about what might come after, what might be there to greet you when you closed your tired eyes for the last time. Maybe she should have, even before she’d begun sharing and spreading the ecstasy of despair with her beloved, she had been intimately acquainted with death. Her patients did not die often, but they did die. Sometimes she’d stayed at their bedside as they passed, held their hands. Some seemed relieved, others scared; some bargained and begged, others prayed that whichever god or gods they believed in would accept their soul and see them home. In her experience, there was never any consistency in death, no constant, beyond the cessation of function.

Now that she had time, oodles and oodles of time, and the subject was one in which she was now very interested, she found herself wondering about it often.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t  _tried_.

Not the first few times, of course. Those had been... accidents for all that she sometimes imagined she heard the clatter of wooden sandals or felt the touch of a small hand before she fell. She hadn't realized she was still capable of feeling guilt, hadn't thought even if she was that she'd feel it for her, but... she’d meant her end so many times with Saionji’s voice an echo in her head.

Not that it mattered.

Not that it changed anything.

Not that it made her feel any less  _alone_.

She threw her hands in the air, bracing her legs against the sides of the cart as the coaster fell over the crest of the first hill.

The cart sped down, down,  _down_ , faster and faster, the clack of the wheels across the track loud, so loud in the otherwise unnaturally quiet air. Her heart was in her throat, joy screaming through her veins as the coaster banked into a turn that threw her giggling from one side of the cart to the other. Another hard turn and then up and over one small hill into an even bigger one and up, up,  _up._...

And then  _down_!

Her grip slipped and she spun up, into the air, her skirt fluttering and flapping around her. For just the briefest of moments she was high and free and it was perfect, glorious.

Then the raised restraints of the next cart slammed against the small of her back, sending bright red pain spiking through her as she spun, hurtled, round and round, as new pain slammed into her again and again, crack of breaking bones and the taste of blood in her mouth as teeth were knocked down the back of her throat to choke her and pain blackened her gaze and there was a great snap that seemed like the only sound in the entire world and then there was… nothing.

Nothing and then the familiar whirl, click, pop of the projector spinning to life and she doesn’t have to open her eyes to know that she was there again. The stench of burnt oil and stale popcorn as light flashed red across her shuttered lids. Nothing had changed.

Nothing ever changed.

She was still as utterly alone as she’d ever been.

She opened reluctant eyelids to watch listlessly as Monokuma strolled lazily across the screen once again.

She wasn’t certain how long she sat there just staring at the screen, watching that awful movie play through again and again and again.

It didn’t matter.

Time meant very little when there was no end in sight.

The screen blurred in and out of focus and the tears were warm against her cheeks when she finally closed her eyes.

“Why won’t you just forgive me?” She asked of everyone and no one, but her beloved most of all.

There was no answer.

There was no one left to answer her, after all. Or maybe there had never been anyone to begin with me.

Maybe it had only ever been in her head.

Her back ached a bit when she finally straightened and stretched, but otherwise she felt much the same as she ever did. Exactly as she had upon waking that first day, bereft and alone, sore from the injuries she’d received during her execution. Everything was just the same. Nothing changed. No matter what she did, nothing ever changed.

No harm done.

“Just another day in paradise,” she murmured, giggling a little at her own joke, as she held a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound.

She’d never thought of herself as a particularly inventive person. She was good at following orders, adhering to procedure, and she had an excellent memory for minute details. She could remember room numbers and dosages, recall entire charts after reading them once, she had all kinds of useful little skills that had been what had made her the Ultimate Nurse. The act of creation, however, was one thing that had never come naturally to her. She failed every art and music and writing course, anything that required a creative beat, not because she was a terrible artist per say, but instead because when pressed to come up with something new she always, inevitably, fell back on what she knew and then she would second guess even that, too nervous about failing in the end to do anything at all.

It was actually pretty funny how many different ways a person could come up with to kill themselves, especially when they had all the time in the world to do so and a pressing motivation to keep at it. To find something that would stick. She’d been there for…

How long again?

She wasn’t certain. It was difficult to keep track. Sometimes the nights seemed so long and sometimes they were crushingly short and sometimes the day wore on forever.

It seemed like she’d tried everything to put an end to it. She’d jumped off the cliffs, drowned herself beneath the warm salt water. She‘d sliced her wrists, her jugular, pressed a knife into her gut which, in retrospect, had been foolish as it had taken hours and hours to bleed out and die from that wound.

She had hung herself on two different occasions. She had even gone as far as electrocution though that had been mostly a rather spectacular failure. She’d tried it three times and only actually managed to make one of those attempts fatal. The other two times she’d just woken up where she’d fallen reeking of urine. She’d been damp, cold, embarrassed and in a tremendous amount of pain. She’d hobbled out to the swimming pool and drowned herself after each of those failures just to make the pain stop.

How many days had it been? How many nights? It seemed like hundreds. Hundreds upon hundreds of spent wandering through deserted streets and empty buildings. Trying to kill herself whenever it got to be too much, too lonely, too quiet.

Once she’d spent an entire week’s worth of days sitting in her own filth in the supermarket eating her way through a freezer full of ice cream. It should have made her sick… and it did. Sick and miserable, until she stumbled back out at the end of the week and jumped off the bridge that she’d traveled over to reach the island.

She’d felt better after that.

Better…. and worse too, because she’d woken up in the theater and just screamed and screamed until she had no voice left to scream with, until the only sounds she could make were rough, brittle, cracking moans. Her mouth had been dry and gummy as she’d clawed open her throat with her dirty, ragged fingernails and bled out all over the floor of the theater, gasping and twitching as the projector whirled and spun, a fitting accompaniment for her final moments.

She’d woken minutes or hours or days later to find a pool of tacky blood beneath her feet even though her clothes and body were the same as they’d ever been.

She’d cried then… for a long time, but eventually her tears had run dry, as she’d realized the simple truth that things would never change.

That every day would be just like the day before and the day after stretching out into eternity and nothing she did would change that.

Her beloved had forsaken her.

There was nothing left.

Not even tears.

She haunted the island like a ghost, passing through places she’d explored with everyone and places that were strange and unfamiliar to her, the islands she’d never had a chance to see… before. The amusement park, the factories and the military complex… so many strange new places just as empty and forlorn as the places she’d already known which was probably why she found herself lingering in those places she knew best. They became like old friends, those places, and if she spoke to them as such there was never anyone around to criticize or complain.

The hospital was where she lingered most frequently, wandering those lonely halls, self-medicating and lying in the messy unmade beds in the patient rooms. They stank of old sweat, but it was still better than the burnt butter reek of the theater.

Sometimes she went to the hotel, not the cheap little place where the others had stayed during the quarantine, but the big resort they’d all lived in together during those first days. She’d revisited her own room unsure whether she was disappointed or relieved to find nothing had changed since the last night she’d spent there.

More than once she’d lingered outside the door of Hinata’s room, her fingers resting against the wood. She knew the lock would still be broken, that all it would take would be one simple push and she’d be able to slide inside, but she’d never quite been able to muster the courage to do so.

She hadn’t been able to go into any of their cabins, except her own.

And even that… it was what she imagined it might be like to go back to a childhood home years after you’d moved out and moved on and others had come to take your place. To see a place so familiar and realize the people that lived there were strangers. That no matter how familiar the frame of a door or how well you knew the creaks of the stairs, it didn’t belong to you any longer.

Her cabin at the resort was like that now. She recognized all her meager belongings, but, at the same time, they looked strange, off. The hotel itself was the same, uneaten food, untouched by time, lay spread across all the tables, but it only made her feel ill to see it.

She had known they wouldn’t be there, couldn’t be there, but she still couldn’t quite shake the notion that they were. That they were just hiding from her. That maybe, if she apologized sincerely enough, repented hard enough, that they would come out and tell her it had all been a joke.

Just a terrible, cruel prank they’d been playing on her. That she could come back, that she had been forgiven. That it wasn’t her fault, that she wasn’t to blame. That she’d done what she’d done for love and that could never be wrong.

Like one day they might come for her and tell her all was forgiven and that it wasn’t her fault at all and it had just been a terrible joke, a cruel prank, and she could come back.

She would forgive them for doubting her, for not understanding and she wouldn’t be alone anymore.

Maybe they would punish her or she… she might punish them.

So she left the doors of their cabins closed and she never went back to the main buildings again after that first day. She let that dangerous little morsel of hope flicker in the back of her mind as she went about her days.

But nothing ever changed.

No one ever came.

Another day passed.

And she was still there.

Still alone.

And time marched ever onward.

+++  
**DAY THREE**  
-continued-  
 

Thunder crashed, louder and more persistent, than it had seemed before. The sound summoned her from her thoughts and she looked blankly around the room, hoping something would jump out at her. That maybe Komaeda himself would jump out at her and yell ‘ _surprise_ ’ and scare her. Save her the trouble of having to find him.

She waited.

No such luck.

The room remained silent and motionless but for the storm and the curtains wet and whipping about whenever a gust of irate wind blew in to disturb them, to spray water across the floor, the bed, the haphazard piles of boxes and equipment.

She was alone.

Well, not alone, not really.

She would never be alone again because her beloved would always, always be there, just out of sight, supporting her. Ready to forgive her for all her mistakes, to provide her with what she wanted, what she _needed_ , to help her see the _truth_.

 _But_ he’d understand that soon enough. She’d help him too. Of course, she would, of course.

The smile that trembled on her lips felt strange and brittle and she giggled as she shuffled away from the grate to confront the messy bed and the open window behind it. She hummed softly, tunelessly as she crawled up onto the mattress to kneel on the damp sheet. Blankets and spilled boxes covered the foot of the bed, but the area in front of the window was clear.

Suspiciously so.

Yes, it was obvious, wasn’t it?

He hadn’t even really tried to hide it, not really.

She rested her hands against the soft, gummy wood of the sill. The warm surging rain fell heavy against her as she peered out into the night, drenching her dress, her apron, blew up across her skin. The downpour was so very heavy and the night so dark that it was difficult to see much beyond the thin ledge that ran along the building just beneath the window. The wind gusted in sudden and unpredictable ways, whipping her hair this way and that as she leaned as far out as she dared to peer down at the ground below. The falling rain soaked the shoulders and back of her dress, made her hair heavy until it hung limp around her face, plastered against her back no longer stirred by the wind. She could see the patchy grass and dark mud that covered the ground below, just barely, but there was no sign of her lost patient.

She thought of calling out to him, but she doubted he’d be able to hear her over the pounding rain. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the world outside the window and confirming that there was no sign of her lost patient. She slipped back inside, disappointed, shutting the window with a loud thump dulling the sound as thunder rumbled and crashed again.

It was frustrating.

He could have edged out along the ledge or leapt from the window and broken his neck or even dropped to the ground below without a scratch, but there was no way to _know_ , to be _certain_.

Thunder rumbled, fading to a growl as lightning split the air again, forking across the horizon, illuminating the rough waves of the ocean beyond the island. The sheets were soaked and so was she and, for all that, she was no closer to knowing how to proceed. Irritated, she grabbed the window and slammed it shut, deadening the sound of the storm… though not by much.  
  
Had he been that desperate to leave?

Had he done it to get to _him_?

To be with _him_?

She’d heard him calling his name. Calling it again and again, desperate, panicked.

Didn’t he know?

Couldn’t he understand that it had all been- that Hinata Hajime especially had been- nothing more than a cruel trick?

Just a cruel trick meant to make them believe they could start over, untainted by despair. That everything could be _different_ , that they could be _forgiven_. As if that were something they even _wanted_ , something they needed. It had all been just a dirty trick, a revolting deception, just another lie and all it did was make the despair all the sweeter when it returned, when she’d seen the man behind the curtain, when she’d realized that Hinata… sweet, forgiving, generous, friendly Hinata was a lie too.

The worst lie of all, because it had been bad enough to make her think she was that girl again. So alone in the world and out of her depth and eager to be liked, to be loved and wanted and appreciated, but then… then they’d even given her someone- given them all someone- to… to _approve_ of them, to _forgive_ them, to _love_ them.

They’d gifted them with their own private Pandora. Someone to crack open their wicked hearts and loose all their insecurities and horrors upon the world within the safety of that intimate space, teach them not to fear what they were, to accept it instead, to trap only hope inside. The hope for a better tomorrow, for friends and a life beyond their terrible circumstances, the ragged, empty lives that had let despair bring them to their knees.

Had let them believe they could be _forgiven_.

That _liar_.

He hadn't been one of them.

Had never been anything close to real.

He’d been an interloper, an intruder, a nasty fly in the ointment, ruining _everything_. Without him her beloved’s plans would have gone off without a hitch. They would have simply become what they had always been, soft dough easily formed to fit the molds she had crafted for them, all the useless bits stripped away. A more perfect despair, exquisite vessels shaped and fired and ready to receive her, to let her fill them up. 

Everything would have been as it was supposed to be.

Everything would have been perfect without Hinata Hajime there to spoil it all. To steal away everyone who loved her and leave her all alone. To turn them all against her, make them all blame her.

 **+++**  
**DAY THREE**  
-midnight-

She couldn’t sleep.

Not really and less and less as time passed. As weeks turned to months, she marked the cycle of the sun across the wall of the on-call room. There was no need to eat, no need to drink, no need to even move if she didn’t feel like it.

And she rarely felt like it.

She couldn’t die from any of those things, not really, couldn’t waste away to nothing since this was nothing but a simulation and she was just so much data… probably. Not that it mattered really. Her brain still thought she needed food and water, needed to process and dispose of waste, needed to move regularly so her muscles didn’t cramp or atrophy.

Not that it really mattered. If she got to be too uncomfortable she just had to kill herself and she could start the whole cycle again with a relatively clean slate.

So, really, there was no point to bothering with it… or with anything, really.

Nothing changed and the days wore on, one blending seamlessly into the next and the next and the next. Time passed whether she wished it to or no and so she spent much of it losing herself in thoughts of what had been and what could have been.

Most often she tried to dwell upon her beloved, but the memories were distant, difficult to conjure. She was left with frustratingly dim pictures of what had been. Memories of her voice, her face, all the things they’d done and spoken of together, but they were… jumbled, indistinct like a memory of another life. The emotions were clear. The despair she’d given her that had kept her alive, the love she felt for her, the ache of missing her, but everything else before the island lingered on as shards and fragments, sharp enough to hurt when she brushed up against them, but impossible to see clearly. 

The on-call room was her favorite place to linger, the bed she’d once shared with Hinata Hajime her favorite place to lay as she watched the shift of shadows across walls and floor. An endless parade of darkness to darkness where the light only served to provide variety.

She thought about him a lot.

Maybe more than she thought about her beloved.

How cruel he’d been.

How stupid she’d been.

How completely he had fooled her.

Most of all, she thought about how well she could still remember what it had felt like to lay beside him. How warm he’d been, how much she’d enjoyed watching the rise and fall of his chest, feeling it beneath her palm. How much during that final night she’d wanted to hold her hand over his nose and mouth, to see him, feel him, twitch and squirm beneath her as he died. 

But that had been then.

That had been as the sun colored the horizon to a bruise like shade, the mild cool of late night giving way to the sweltering heat of morning. She’d just finished raising Ibuki’s lifeless body into the rafters. It had taken so much longer than she’d planned. Saionji had almost ruined all her plans with her unexpected arrival. In the end, she’d barely had time to stop off at the hospital, to check over her remaining patients one last time and make sure they were still recovering nicely before racing across the island to slip into his room. 

He’d looked so innocent lying there, one arm curled around his stomach, the fingers of the other pressed into the sheet as if he were trying to claw himself free of the too soft mattress.

She’d climbed on top of him, marveling at how heavy a sleeper he was, how much simpler it might have been to just kill him instead. How much despair his death would have caused them, how they might have all fallen apart without him there to bind them together and how it would have felt to be the cause of it all. To watch them dither about without a voice to reason for them, to lead them by the nose to the truth behind all the lies as they attempted to foil all her beloved’s plans.

Pinning all the blame on Hinata, seeing his cherished friends look at him with suspicion and eventually send him to his death… that would probably bring forth an even deeper despair in the moments before the trap swung shut and put an end to all of them in one fell swoop, but this might have been nice too.

Hinata had been surprisingly cool, his skin clammy with sweat beneath her hands even in his air-conditioned room, stripped down to boxers and a plain white t-shirt. She ran her hands gingerly over his flushed, damp skin, cuddled in close to him, throwing a leg over his chest in a parody of the position she’d taken that first evening they’d slept together. She’d had so much hope then. Hope that Hinata cared, that he _wanted_ her the way that she wanted him, that all he needed was just a little _push_.

Stupid.

He had twitched and whimpered plaintively in his sleep, turning his face away as if he was unnerved by her touch.

Hinata had always been cruel even when he was unconscious.

Strange that, after all that had happened, all the time she’d spent alone since her execution, pouring over the memories of those days, that casual, instinctive rejection still stung.

Had he been able to sense the change in her? Been able to feel the insistent presence of despair? Was that what made the difference between when she had slipped into his cabin and when she had curled up beside him in the bed in the on-call room? He’d seemed more receptive then or at least he hadn’t flinched away from her touch even though his reaction upon waking that evening hadn’t met her expectations at all. She’d been so certain… so certain that he _liked_ her. That he would be _glad_ to wake up with her beside him. That was why she’d gone up there after all. She could have simply stayed with her patients, but she’d wanted… she’d wanted him and she’d thought he wanted her too. He was always so nice to her. He complimented her and defended her and depended on her skills. 

It had seemed so… obvious.

She’d been so certain.

She had found the last of the things she needed to properly monitor Mister Komaeda on the second floor in the storage area that doubled as an on-call room. It had seemed as if everything that might be of use had just been piled in there haphazardly with no rhyme or reason or care. She’d managed to find a few things that would be helpful: towels and some outdated but still functional monitoring equipment and Mister Hinata had been more than happy to help her carry it downstairs. Of course, then it hadn’t actually worked and she’d felt guilty for not checking it upstairs like an idiot. 

“O-Oh, I’m sorry that was pretty stupid, wasn’t it? I’m so sorry to make you carry it all the way down here for nothing,” She’d exclaimed, nervous laughter bubbling in her chest, fingers catching and tugging at her hair.

“No, no, it’s fine,” he replied quickly, waving off her concern. “It just figures that nothing actually works in this place. We’re just lucky that bear treated Kazuryuu somewhere where all the equipment wasn’t broken or fake.”

“R-Right,” she agreed quickly, a nervous titter slipping free as she frowned. “I should be able to administer medication and fluids for Mister Komaeda intravenously as his fever is the highest and he seems to be a bit dehydrated. H-hopefully the others won’t get any worse as there’s really o-only enough of the proper equipment for o-one.” 

“Well, that’s better than nothing, I guess,” he smiled, pushing the broken monitor into the weird operating suite diorama to get it out of the way. “Let us know if there’s anything we can do to help. Don’t try to do everything yourself.”

“O-Of course, I’ll let you k-know. T-Thank you for your c-concern, Mister Hinata.”

“Just Hinata is fine, you know. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Y-Yes, of course,” she answered quickly, happiness bubbling in her chest as she ducked her head. “I-I should go check on him now. He needs his medicine.”

“Yeah, of course. Tell him…” Hinata sighed, shaking his head and shoving his heads into the pockets of his slacks as he turned away, back towards the lobby. “No, nevermind, he’d just make it into something terrible anyway. Just… let me know if anything changes or if you need any help.”

With that he was gone, the door at the end of hall falling closed behind him and the hall was once again quiet save for the persistence of Miss Owari's muffled sobs.

She tried not to be frustrated by the sound.

The last time she'd checked on her she'd discovered that she was afraid of the shifting shadows cast by the afternoon sun. Unfortunately, there wasn’t truly anything to be done for that as she'd quickly learned that Miss Owari was also afraid of the possibility of spiders, the dark, dust motes, and the sound curtains made as they rushed across the pole.

The best she could do for her was to make sure she was safe and as comfortable as possible.

Treating Ibuki at least had been simple. As long as she returned to her room regularly to give her new orders, Ibuki seemed perfectly content to merely sit in her room staring blankly at the wall or out the window, occasionally sipping the glass of water she’d left for her.

Mister Komaeda, on the other hand, was still considerably more affected than the other two which she had a feeling had to do with the fact that he had already in poor health to begin with. Not that she knew that for certain as he’d never permitted her to examine him before he’d caught the Despair disease.

When she pushed open the door to his room, she found him sitting on the edge of the bed staring down vacantly at his hands where they lay in his lap, his limp, sweat-damp hair obscuring his features.

“Please lay back on the bed, Mister Komaeda,” she murmured, a little surprised when he did what she asked without compliant or even a contrary word. Just laid down and closed his eyes, allowing her to complete her work in peace, though she couldn’t help but notice the fine tremor that ran through his body as she struck her fingers against his wrist and the bend of his arm in search of a vein. They were thin and squirrely and she had to prick his skin several times before she was finally able to settle the catheter into place successfully.

“Are you all right?” She asked as she set the bag, more out of habit than in expectation of an honest answer.

“Everyone always asks me that,” Komaeda replied, voice distant and strange. “I’m perfectly fine. Never better. Oh, did you know that there’s a gnome living in Mioda’s hair who writes all her songs for her?”

“Please try to get some-“

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Komaeda interrupted, his gaze still unfocused and vague as he stared blankly up at the ceiling overhead. “I think Hinata might really like you. I know what I’m talking about with these things, you see, because I’m actually the ultimate matchmaker. But don’t tell anyone because then they’ll all be requesting my services. I simply don’t have the time to be so popular.”

It wasn’t his fault, of course. He didn’t mean to be cruel. It was the illness.

Only… he was always like that, wasn’t he?

He always seemed to find ways to twist the simplest, most frivolous words so they became something cruel or horrible. Made them so each syllable dug deep like a hooking knife buried in the soft belly of a fish.

Maybe that was just the kind of person he was.

“He doesn’t care about you, you know,” he had called, conversationally, from where he’d lain bound on the floor of the room in which Mister Togami had been killed.

She had _liked_ the way he looked tied up like that.

Helpless.

Harmless.

Bound like that, he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone at all. He wouldn’t even be able to do anything for himself. He would need someone to help him with even the simplest things. Help him to eat, to drink, to sit up when he began to ache from all those long hours on the floor. He’d even need help to use the toilet.

Yes, he would need someone willing to help with all those things and, with the way he acted, volunteers would probably be in short supply.

She could be of use. 

They would need her to take care of him, wouldn’t they? Who else would be willing to do it?

“W-w-w-what?” She’d stuttered in answer, hoping he wouldn’t clarify.

“Hi-na-ta,” he replied, confirming that feeling as he shifted a little to relieve the cramping in his shoulders. “You _like_ like him, right? It seems like almost everyone _does_.”

She’d been tied up like that often enough herself to know that the muscles in your back and shoulders began cramping after a while, especially if you were left like that for long periods of time or if the ropes bound you too tightly.

It was very unpleasant, but he didn’t complain. He just shifted uncomfortably, fingers twitching, the sound of braided rope chafing against skin and the canvas of his jacket loud in the otherwise quiet room. His face was blotchy and red, glistening with sweat. Sometimes he winced and squinted a little when drops of that sweat slid down into his eyes.

It must have burned. Her hands ached to wipe it away, but for some reason she couldn’t quite bring herself to move any closer to him.

“You’re not special. You’re just useful to him, that’s all.”

“W-w-why w-would you s-say something like t-that?” She stammered in reply even as emotion squirmed and tightened things low in her body. There was something about Komaeda Nagito that she… not _liked_ , exactly, but there was something she _wanted_ reflected in those pale eyes.

Something familiar, something… that reminded her of childhood, of hands slipping to familiar across her body, pinching her skin roughly.

“Why wouldn’t I?” He replied easily, rolling his gaze up to her, past her. “He’s seems so kind, right? But that’s cruel too in a way, isn’t it? He’s treats everyone so equally, so _fairly_. He’s kind to everyone just the same and that means everyone is just the same in his eyes, doesn’t it? That no one is special.”

“T-Then that means you’re not special either,” she wasn’t even sure _why_ she said it, why she was still there, why she hadn’t just left when he’d started being mean.

His expression was like a mask, a rictus smile to hide whatever he was truly feeling. “Aren’t I? He isn’t like that with me, is he? Not anymore. No more late night talks and swimming pools. But that’s okay. That’s fine. I mean, that’s actually better, isn’t it? It’s much more hopeful this way. It means that I’m different from the rest. I mean, that was obvious from the start, right? Compared to all of you, my talent isn’t really worth much and I’m worth even less. And yet, like this, _like this_ , I’m _special_ to him. Unique. The way he looks at me… he _hates_ me, you know? I disgust him now. He can’t understand me at all and I can’t understand him. And that… that would have been awful, but it’s not because it’s actually really lucky, I’m really lucky to be hated. This is much better than being liked by him, because it means that when he looks at me he really sees me instead of what he _wants_ to see or what I might want him to see. It means he really… sees me; my ugly, terrible, imperfect, greedy, worthless self and still he… he still _looks_ at me. He still came to see me. He’ll remember me long after I’m dead and gone. So, that’s… that’s really lucky.”

She wasn’t sure what to say to that, what to do, more curious and confused than hurt by his words. He wasn’t really talking to _her_ , not truly. She was the one standing before him. The one who’d come to take care of him, but his thoughts and words were all about Hinata, all for Hinata. 

He’d been there before her. She’d seen him leave the building that afternoon, walking so quickly it had almost looked like he was running, as if he couldn’t escape the building fast enough. His cheeks had been flushed bright red and there had been such a dark scowl on his face. He hadn’t even seemed to see anything around him, as if all his thoughts lingered in the place he’d left behind, on the person he’d left there. He hadn’t even glanced at her when she’d called out to him, hadn’t seen or heard her at all.

It was the same degree of regard Komaeda gave her as he spoke.

She might as well have been a lamp or the table for all the attention he truly paid her. As if she didn’t matter in the least to him. As if she didn’t matter at _all_. As if she didn’t even _exist_.

Her fingers trembled where they held the food tray.

The temptation to hurl it at him, to _make_ him look at _her_ , to pay attention to her, to see _her_ and acknowledge her existence was almost overwhelming.

He’d have to look at her then, wouldn’t he?

If he had a concussion he’d need treatment, _wouldn’t he_?

And she was the only one, the _only one_ who could help, wasn’t she?

That was her very favorite thing about being on that island with everyone. She was the only one they could turn to. She was important, vital, because what would they do without her? They’d never be able to care for themselves properly, would they? It was different here, wasn’t it? Everything was different there.

She was _important_.

She was a necessary and valued member of the group and they needed her, didn’t they? Even Miss Saionji needed her, would have no choice but to rely on her even if she’d never admit it. Her skills, her talent, were by far the most necessary talent on the island. Luck wouldn’t heal your wounds, being athletic wouldn’t keep you from being felled by disease, being a talented musician that everybody loved wouldn’t keep your body from being ravaged by fatigue.

Here she was the best and most important person.

Even if they didn’t love her, they would still _need_ her and that was almost better than love.

_Almost._

It hadn’t really surprised her that Hinata allowed Mister Komaeda to stay close even after that. She could understand wanting to keep an eye on him. He was dangerous, after all. What she didn't understand was why everyone else had seemed to forgive him as if nothing he had done really mattered at all. They’d allowed him to roam free even after everything he’d done. Treated him as more of an annoyance, an irritant, than a true threat. As if it were only expected that he should behave that way.

She didn’t understand that at all.

He was… broken. He had been sick long before the despair disease had infected him. He was…

_“You looked so hopeful at the prospect, I thought it might be interesting, but it wasn’t.” He sighed, pushing up off the bed up onto stiff, unsteady legs, her arm hanging loose and limp at his side. “Yearning for someone just deepens your despair. It’s funny, I always thought it worked the other way, but I guess not for everybody.”_

She blinked and shivered, shaking her head hard to clear it. She really shouldn’t allow her mind to wander like that when she was working. She could easily make a mistake if she wasn’t careful. She couldn’t let anyone die in her care.

What had she even been thinking about, anyway?

She couldn’t quite remember, but it left her feeling faintly queasy.

“Hey,” a boy’s voice called from outside the door. It took her a long moment to recognize that voice as Mister Kazuryuu. Which seemed silly since she knew there were only three boys there. “Look, how about you take first? You look like hell.”

“Thanks for that,” Hinata replied, laughing. It was such a nice sound. “But yeah, I didn’t really sleep much last night after everything that happened. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. Kind had my fill of bed rest, ya know? I’d rather be up and moving right now. So, you go ahead.”

“Okay, if you’re sure. I’ll go rest upstairs, I guess. There’s a bed up there in the room towards the back. Come wake me when you want to switch off or if something happens?”

“Yeah, of course. Get some rest.”

Their footsteps seemed to echo louder than they should as Hinata presumably went upstairs while Mister Kazuryuu returned to the lobby.

She hung up the bag with a sigh, double-checking the gauges to make certain everything was adjusted and set properly before administering the solution. Mister Komaeda’s voice had faded to a murmur while her attention had been elsewhere. His eyes were closed, but he still continued to rattle off a mumbled and seemingly endless series of increasingly improbable lies.

“They’re not actually hamsters, you know, they’re really gremlins in disguise here to sabotage all our washing machines.”

“Tanaka doesn’t actually wear make up. He's really a cyborg and those are all just color-changing, power-up marks. Watch out for when they turn magenta. That’s the only time he’s vulnerable.”

“Saionji is actually the second coming of Christ. She’s come to save us all.”

It wasn’t just that he lied, though that was disturbing enough, it was almost as if he couldn’t seem to _stop_ lying, as if he were compelled to just tell lie after lie so long as there were ears around to hear them. She’d couldn’t help but notice how he’d fallen silent when she’d left the room earlier to settle the others. How he hadn’t stopped speaking for more than a few moments each time she’d returned since.

She’d probably been doing him a kindness whenever she left him alone.

There was, after all, very little that she could actually _do_ for him, for any of them really, other than keep them comfortable and monitor their vitals. In a way, it was a job anyone could have done, not that she’d ever tell anyone that. This was the first chance she’d had to really be of use and she didn’t want to miss a moment of it. Besides they'd need her expertise if any of them took a turn for the worse so it was mostly true anyway. 

Still, it would be safe to leave them on their own for a little while, wouldn’t it?

Just... just for a few minutes.

She couldn’t really do anything for the others at the moment and Mister Komaeda in particular probably wouldn’t be able to rest well while she was in the room. He already looked so exhausted, his pillow and the collar of his robe stained dark with sweat, pale fingers trembling against the blanket as he continued to mumble to himself, his voice rougher and weaker than it had been before.

Hadn't Hinata seemed very concerned about him?

Wouldn't he want to know how he was faring?

Of course he would. She could probably catch him before he actually fell asleep.

Probably.

She yelped in surprise as fingers caught hold of her wrist in a grip that was painful and sure to leave bruises behind.

“I just want to sleep,” he said earnestly, his face flushed and his body restless beneath the blanket. His eyes wide and glassy and it seemed like he was trying to focus, but couldn’t quite manage it, “I have such beautiful dreams.”

She forced a smile as she pried his fingers from around her wrist, firmly pushing his hand away before reaching out to smooth his hair. The texture was unpleasant, oily and damp, “Just try to get some rest. I’ll be back to check on you soon.”

He didn’t answer, but his hand fell slack against the blanket, which she decided was probably answer enough.

She checked his temperature once more and found it was already improving. Nothing to worry about at all now that he was receiving fluids and his fever was going down.

If he was awake, she could tell him that. He’d probably tell her what a wonderful job she was doing.

Guilt and excitement fizzled together in her throat, sharp and sweet like shaken soda pop as she slipped quietly up the stairs to the on-call room to see him. She wasn't doing anything wrong, of course, but for some reason she couldn't quite put a name to, it seemed... a little naughty like when she used to steal sweets from Doctor Saito's desk and let him blame some patient who had been in that morning with a stomachache or some other easy to fake illness.

"Hinata? Are you awake?" She knocked softly on the door, slipping inside on silent feet when there was no response came from within. It didn’t really surprise her to find Hinata sleeping there so peacefully.

“Hinata?” She called again, quietly, but she wasn’t really surprised when he didn’t stir. He’d looked so tired that morning, the skin beneath his eyes bruise dark and his eyelids heavy even before he’d half-carried Komaeda all the way from the hotel to the hospital.

He looked so… guileless, almost innocent as he lay there, curled towards the door with the blanket shoved down towards the foot of the bed. It was awfully warm that day. His features were creased with worry as if even in sleep he couldn’t quite leave all his cares behind.

Hajime really was _such_ a good person.

She felt heat streak up her neck to boil in her cheeks and forehead and she licked her chapped lips nervously. She’d never said his first name aloud and might never be able to at all if just _thinking_ it affected her so deeply. But it was… it was… really a very nice name.

_Hajime._

He liked her, didn’t he? They were… friends, weren’t they? And if they were friends, he might not mind if she joined him. Not for long, of course. No, just… just for a moment or two. She just… she just wanted to be close to him. His innate goodness, his light, and the way he made her _feel_ most of all: wanted, accepted, and forgiven.

He liked her, didn’t he?

And if he liked her… if he wanted her… it would be fine, wouldn’t it?

Being with him, being near him… that was fine, wasn’t it? She could just… just lie down next to him. Friends… friends shared beds all the time and she wanted to be more than friends and maybe… maybe he did too.

She… she loved him, didn’t she?

He had been so kind and he had _seemed_ to really _like_ her, but he wasn’t ever cruel to her and he didn’t hit her or kick her or pull her hair. But even without all that, he still paid _attention_ to her, as if she were _interesting_ , as if her company were _enjoyable_. He’d _noticed_ her and _worried_ for her and was so _concerned_ about her and she wanted him to _keep_ noticing her, but he….

He didn’t look at her _exactly_ the way she wanted him to, did he?

It was… it was like Komaeda had said. He was kind to everyone, he worried about everyone and so was she… was she really special to him if she wasn’t the only one he looked at? The only one he chose to spend time with?

Now that she thought about it, it was actually kind of terrible, wasn’t it? She was his friend, but then all the others were his friends too.

Didn’t she deserve more than that?

She knew it was maybe a little _selfish_ to want him to only look at her, but she couldn’t help it. She just… she liked him so _much_. And she was sure he’d forgive her for her selfishness. He was that sort of person, after all. The sort who could forgive anything, he’d even seemed to forgive Komaeda, at least a little bit, otherwise, why would be have helped him to the hospital? Why would he care for he was? If he could forgive Komaeda for inciting Teru Teru to murder than he could certainly forgive her for just wanting to be close to him, for just wanting to be important to him, more important than anyone else.

There was nothing wrong with that, nothing wrong with her.

Besides, she was sure that he liked her. Really liked her.

But maybe he was just shy or maybe… maybe he didn’t want the others to feel left out. Especially if he didn’t know that she liked him. She hadn’t done a very good job about letting him know, after all. There hadn’t really been many opportunities for that sort of thing. Everything had been so hectic.

But now… now things were… quiet and they were alone.

So maybe….

She was being selfish, but she just… she just wanted _more_. 

They’d been there for weeks and this feeling… this feeling has been growing and growing all that time, swelling up inside her like a balloon until it was fit to burst. The nicer he was to her, the worse it got, until sometimes… sometimes she just… she just wanted to _scream_ at him, to _throw_ things. To do something drastic, dramatic, something that would make him look at her the way she looked at him. That would make him realize that she didn’t want to be just friends. She wanted to be special. She wanted to be loved. She wanted to be cherished and forgiven for wanting all these things.

And the way the others looked at him… the way _Komaeda_ looked at him.

It made her chest tight.

It was so….

_Frustrating._

The way she sometimes noticed him looking back.

_So frustrating._

She wasn’t special to him. Not the way she wanted to be, not the way she should be.

She liked him so much.

And he said he liked her too.

And yet he… he didn’t _look_ at her like _that_ , did he?

He didn’t ever look at her like she was the only person worth seeing.

It was really… _frustrating._

Her fingers caught in her hair, worrying it, pulling it tight.

It had been so frustrating.

She had liked him so _much_ and he liked her, she _knew_ he did, he’d said so hadn’t he?

So many times and every time it made her heart thump quick and fluttery as if it were about to leap from her chest at any moment. Every time he smiled at her and seemed so concerned for her wellbeing, for her _happiness_. Every time he would seek her out and chose to spend time with her day after day even though he could have spent time with any of them. He told her that people didn’t hate her just because they didn’t take the time to punish her and she was able to believe him.

Not because she thought it was true, not really, but because he said it. He said and when he said it felt like maybe, maybe she could _believe_ it.

Believe _him_.

He was… he was _special_ and he made _her_ feel _special_ and she could... she could….

 _“You deserve to be loved.”_   The thought seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once and she found herself nodding along, fingernails digging into the flesh above her elbows.

She did, didn’t she? 

_“Of course, you do.”_

He had just looked so… lonely in that bed, hadn’t he?

_“Of course he did.”_

And he had. He had looked so desperately lonely. Lonely like she was lonely as if he needed someone to hold him, comfort him. Everything was just so… stressful, wasn’t it? He was so tired he’d just fallen right to sleep. And she… she just wanted to….

She was _allowed_ to be with him, wasn’t she?

That was what _friends_ did, wasn’t it?

They _comforted_ each other, didn’t they?

So, she’d just… just keep him _company_.

Just for a while.

It wasn’t even really for her own benefit. It wasn’t really selfish at all when she thought about it, really thought about it. She was doing this for him. To make him feel better.

So that was all right, wasn’t it?

That made it all right, didn’t it?

She really hadn’t been being selfish at all really. You couldn’t be selfish and selfless at the same time, could you? And even if it wasn’t a _hardship_ it was still something she was doing for him, wasn’t it? 

And even, even if her intentions weren’t… weren’t _absolutely_ pure… well.

He would forgive her, wouldn't he?

He always forgave her.

He would always forgive her.

He would forgive her.

So, she could forgive him too.

That was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?

To forgive him for looking at everyone else with kindness when he should have only been looking at her.

He was hers, after all.

She could forgive him for all the others.

She could even forgive him for looking at Komaeda that way, because he was just being _nice_.

He was a nice person, after all, a _good_ person.

The best person she knew.

So much better than Komaeda Nagito could ever hope to be, could ever hope to deserve. Hajime just wanted them all to be friends. To work together and survive, because that’s who Hinata Hajime was, he only wanted them all to be safe.

Even Komaeda.

He had even been willing to forgive _Komaeda_.

So he’d have to forgive her too.

If ever she did anything that required forgiveness.

The early afternoon sun was bright, but fortunately the hospital had been built at an angle so the sun never glared directly through the windows into the patient rooms and the on-call room was just above them. So, while there was plenty of light and it was warm, it was pleasant rather than overbearing. Hinata shifted in his sleep, sprawling out on his back, one hand still settled across his stomach. 

It was the easier thing in the world to breach the distance between them and crawl up onto the bed beside him. To slide in close and press the line of her body to his.

He was so pleasantly _warm_ , like freshly toasted bread or miso soup.

He must have been really worn out not to wake as she shifted restlessly beside him trying to find a position both comfortable and close… or maybe he was just used to restless bed partners…. 

No, obviously _that_ couldn't be true. Hinata was too... good for that, wasn't he? Too innocent.

No, she was being silly. Imagining things that weren’t there… jumping at shadows.

She slid a little closer to him, as close as she dared, slipping a leg up to lie across his. He winced a little, mumbled something that was more sigh than words before settling back into sleep. He didn’t seem disturbed by her presence at all, which was nice. In fact, she could probably safely say that he was at ease with her… as if she made him feel safe.

She hoped that was true. After all, he made her feel safe, so it would be nice if the feeling were mutual.

Poor Hinata.

He must have been so worried about Nekomaru to be this exhausted.

That sounded like him.

He was such a good person, after all.

She was lucky to be loved by such a wonderful person.

And he felt good, _right,_ pressed close to her like that. As if he were meant to be there. She snuggled closer still, wrapping her arms around him and carefully slipping an arm beneath his head so that she could cradle his face against her chest.

If he didn’t want her there he would surely have woken up and shoved her away, wouldn’t he? Obviously, she was very important to him. He must have liked and trusted her quite a bit to just sleep through that, right?

_Right?_

She closed her eyes and slept.

She dreamt about what might happen when he woke up and found her there. Embarrassing little snatches of sensation and imagination married with how it felt when she slipped fingers into her panties at night. A dozen different scenarios only half-remembered as she lay in the bed of the on-call room, feeling as if she were miles and years away from the girl she’d been that afternoon.

It seemed as if her dreams had been beautiful and when she had finally awoken she’d been a little wet, her body thrumming with the thrill of being so close and thinking such thoughts, dreaming such dreams and the feel of him. His body had been so warm, the seams and folds of his clothing rubbing against her jerkily as he squirmed and writhed almost frantically against her, beneath her, his palm slapping a frantic rhythm against her thigh.

For a moment, just on the edge of wakefulness, she’d thought it was really cute, those muffled, yips of sound he made as he twisted and bucked beneath her. How clumsy and eager he seemed as he struggled and shoved and she smiled, holding him a little tighter, shifting her leg so it rubbed just a bit more firmly against him… which was when she had realized he wasn’t hard at all and that his struggles were getting weaker, slower, with each passing moment.

When she thought about it later, much later, well after they’d left for the night and she’d been left alone with one her patients for company, she had decided that she’d never really expected him to make a move on her, in truth.

Not _Hinata_.

Not her Hinata.

Hinata was… _safe_ , wasn’t he?

Hinata was _perfect_.

He was warm and he was safe and he wouldn’t touch her without knowing absolutely that it was what she wanted. That was just the kind of person he was, wasn’t it?

“Was it? Was it really? Did you really think so? Even then?”

Of course. 

That was why she had _liked_ him so much, _wasn_ _’_ _t it_? 

Because he was so very different from anyone else she had ever known and sometimes… _sometimes_ , perhaps, she had wished that wasn’t the case. That he was less kind, less good, less perfect. That when he had touched her he had been less gentle, that he’d been less understanding of all her faults, because it was easier, less _confusing_ , when people were cruel to her. 

Simpler when they pulled her hair and splashed water on her and kicked her, because at least she knew what to _expect_ from those kind of people. They would never disappoint her, never betray her, because she could anticipate those reactions and give them what they wanted, _expected_ in return. It was so much more _difficult_ since they’d come to the island. Both Hinata and so many of the others… they never acted as she anticipated they would.

Not really.

Nothing like all the others she had known over the years. Not even like themselves, she had realized when she’d remembered enough to make the comparison.

 _Well,_ that wasn’t _quite_ true.

Saionji had been the exception that proved the rule even without their long history to map the course.

Killing her had felt so _good_.

No, what she’d truly expected from Hinata, she had decided in the long night afterwards, was that he would wake, embarrassed, but fond and forgiving. That he’d be flustered, but maybe he’d also be a little amused by her presence, by her antics, which was why she’d made sure to sleep as close to him as possible.

She hadn’t really expected anything to happen.

Not really.

She just… hadn’t expected him to freak out the way he had. That when she awoke he would be struggling to be free of her, begging her to get off him with gestures and slurred words. That she would sit up to find his skin bearing the blue tinge of cyanosis, his breathing ragged and heaving.

So, _of course_ , she’d panicked a little.

After all, the hospital hadn’t had the supplies to treat something like that at _all_.

She’d leapt off him and away, immediately pressing her fingers into his arms and face and chest. Quick efficient jabs, checking his vitals as best she could and massaging his limps even though his color had immediately begun to return to normal the moment she had removed herself. She still needed to check him over, just to be safe.

Perhaps her weight had been too much for him?

Had he really been so fragile?

When he’d fully regained consciousness it had been easy to make excuses and awkward jokes, to shrug away the creeping, pervasive idea that she had acted inappropriately, that her presence was unwanted. He never really said he didn’t like waking up with her, after all, so maybe, next time, he could sprawl across her instead of the other way around.

Then, of course, Mister Kazuryuu had come in and mistaken them for a couple….

And _that_ had made her heart flutter like a bird in her chest for the brief moment before Hinata had shut that line of inquiry down with such brutal efficiency that it made her ache for an entirely different reason. He didn’t have to say it like _that_ , did he? 

 _“That big ol’ meanie,”_ she whispered, the memory of lips brushing across the back of her neck, leaving a smear of lipstick and damp behind. _“He just didn’t appreciate you. No one ever appreciated you except me, did they?”_  

Then Mister Kazuryuu told them that he thought Mister Komaeda had stopped breathing.

And it was only in that moment that it finally dawned on her that she’d left her patients unattended.

So, of course, she’d panicked.

She’d left him alone.

She was meant to be caring for him and she’d left him all alone.

Laughter, like the tinkling of bells, the clatter of sandals against tile, _“And all because you were a little_ jealous _. How lame are you,_ loser _?”_

She’d gotten so caught up in the idea of going up there, of being with him, that she’d completely forgotten that she had other obligations. She was a nurse and it had been her job to look after her patients to the utmost of her ability, even the ones she didn’t especially like, and she’d… she’d failed him. 

She’d just… she’d just assumed she would know if something went wrong, hadn’t she? She’d thought about it at least that much. Maybe she’d even asked Mister Kazuryuu to look in on them. Or maybe she’d just… just assumed that he would. That was it. She’d assumed he’d care enough to check in on them.

_“To assume makes an ass out of u and me. Pupupupu.”_

Hinata would probably hate her if he died because of her irresponsibility. Or, even worse, he _wouldn_ _’_ _t_ hate her. Instead he might just not be able to _look_ at her anymore. He might _ignore_ her or… or… her mind had spun through the seemingly endless list of increasingly horrifying possibilities as she rushed downstairs to Komaeda’s room.

If Komaeda died… she’d lose her purpose. No one would trust her, rely on her, not after that, not anymore. She would be alone, reviled. She was the ultimate nurse and she hadn't been able to keep her patient alive.

They’d never forgive her.

Their hurried footsteps had been so loud in the empty corridor as she flown down the steps with Hinata and Mister Kazuryuu at her heels. 

She arrived at the room just steps ahead of them and shoved through the door, running to the bed. Her hands trembled, but her movements were brisk and efficient as she checked over her patient. His breathing had been shallow and ragged, certainly, but his color had been decent enough so if he _had_ stopped breathing it would seem to have only been for the few moments Mister Kazuryuu had been in the room and he’d started back up on his own so that had been a relief.

He was fine.

Everything was _fine_.

No one would have to know, no one would blame her. It was fine. Everything was fine. She would just… just stay with him from now on. Monitor him more closely to… to prove that she was… devoted. That would be her penance for this misstep. She’d been… selfish. She’d made a mistake, but she… she had learned from it and if she learned from it than they’d have to forgive her. That was how it worked. They would have to forgive her and forget it ever happened.

His health had definitely been declining, of that much there could be no doubt. She would need to monitor him very closely until the worst had passed since there had simply been no way to tell whether that breathing incident had been a fluke or if it were an indication of a larger problem. It had been unfortunate that the hospital had not been equipped with more advanced equipment (or any equipment really outside of the bare essentials). There wasn’t even a ventilator, which would have been the best thing for him… just to be safe. No, there was none of that, so she would have to stay with him and monitor him throughout the night to be ready to intervene if needed.

He could have _died_.

He could have _died_ and it would have been all her _fault_. She was the one responsible for him after all.

Even if it were just Komaeda, they still wouldn’t have been able to forgive her for that.

No more than she would have been able to forgive herself.

She’d pulled at her hair. Just once, quick and sharp, but the pain had allowed her to focus on what was important, on the problem at hand. There would be plenty of time for guilt and recrimination later.

She barely even noticed when Monokuma slipped into the room to loiter in the corner, fidgeting excitedly.

Hinata had lingered at her shoulder, a constantly shifting bundle of nerves and restless motion. When she’d finally glanced up at him she’d found that he wasn’t really looking at her at all or Mister Komaeda. He was glaring at Monokuma instead. Like he’d like nothing better than to rip it’s stuffed head right off and throw it out the window.

“Tsumiki… is he all right?” He asked finally still not looking away from the bear in the corner, the words ground out between clenched teeth. He grimaced as if the shape of the words felt wrong in his mouth.

She’d explained his condition and fielded their questions, listened to the hoarse rasp of Mister Komaeda’s voice as he assured them that he’d never felt better.

“He must be feeling really bad,” Hinata translated, staring down at Mister Komaeda as if he had never seen him before. His hands caught in fists at his sides.

When Mister Kazuryuu had begun asking about what would happen if he were to die, she’d been quick to interject to assure them both that she wouldn’t allow that to happen. Still, even with all her assurances, Hinata had looked a little sick as he’d trailed Mister Kazuryuu out to the lobby.

It had been, all in all, an unsettling experience and it hadn’t been long before she was left alone with her patients since Monokuma had forced them to return to their cottages a short while later.

Before they’d left though, they’d come back to let her know about the communications device and what Monokuma had told them and to apologize for having to leave. They’d even brought her a selection of snacks Mister Kazuryuu had pilfered from the movie theater and a promise to bring something better in the morning. The popcorn was stale and the candy was old, but it still tasted good after the long day. 

“T-Thank you for this. I-I never expected-” she’d commented quietly, gaze turned down and cheeks warm.

He patted her shoulder awkwardly, “Yeah, sure. Look, don’t forget that all this is that damn bear’s fault. You just do what you can, all right?”

“O-Of course! I won’t let you down,” she’d replied, forcing a tremulous smile even as her gaze drifted to where Hinata was leaning over Komaeda’s bed speaking to him in soft tones. His fingers were pushed into the damp of Komaeda’s hair and she couldn’t quite see his expression, but she could hear his quiet admonition.  
  
“You’d better not die and cause more trouble. I don’t like having to worry about you.”

There was something about the way Hinata leaned down to hear Komaeda’s response that made her chest tight.

“We’ll be back in the morning,” Hinata commented, leaning back and speaking as much to her as Komaeda.

His fingers seemed to linger longer than necessary against his sweaty forehead.

She’d quickly assured him… them… several times more that she would never let him die. 

That everything would be fine.

Only it hadn’t been fine.

Not really.

It was a warm night and she’d sat at his bedside listening to him mumbled lies through the night, occasionally forcing water down his throat. She left the room from time to time to check on Ibuki and Owari, but they were fine. They’d both fallen into an uneasy, exhausted slumber around midnight while Komaeda’s condition seemed to only worsen as the hours wore on. He didn’t sleep much and the few times he did doze off, he twitched and twisted in the blankets and she was forcefully remaindered how Hinata had so easily slept through her restless movements that afternoon.

Almost as if he were used to sleeping with someone who…

"Stop it," she mumbled to the empty air.

She was being silly again.

Hinata hated him, Komaeda had said so himself. 

She took a sip of water and wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. She wished the air conditioning worked more efficiently. 

Sometime in the early morning hours, during a brief period when Komaeda was both awake and reasonably calm she urged him out of bed use the bathroom and exchange his smelly, sweat-soaked robe for fresh one.

She'd eased the damp robe off his shoulders as Komaeda stood unsteady and swaying before her, unselfconsciously nude as she tucked the soiled robe into the waste bin. He'd stood there silently as she run a damp cloth over him to wipe away the worst of the sweat and it wasn't until she'd stood back up that she had realized that he was staring at her, eyes narrowing in an attempt to focus on her, his cheeks flushed dark in the bright moonlight.

"Are you alright?" She asked, reluctantly.

He nodded, stumbling forward a step and catching himself against her shoulders. His mouth was slack, lips trembling as words began tumbling out, barely a whisper as first, but gaining in rasping volume as he continued in a rush. His breath was warm and foul against her face and his fingers dug painfully into her shoulders.“Please do whatever you like with me, I really don’t mind a bit! Maybe you should kill me right now! I’m sure no one would suspect you. You could just say the circus people did it. That clown outside the window has a black balloon and a murderous expression so I’m sure-”

She forced herself to look down and away, to focus anywhere but on his strange, frantic expression. His legs were covered in tiny scars and long knotty ones.

It wasn’t even as if he would be looking at her, not really, his eyes had been cloudy and unfocused. It was as if he were talking to someone else or to no one at all. His grip was still painfully tight and he kept rambling on and on, his words growing softer, sloppier, running together in strange ways, syllables mushy as baby food. 

His penis was soft and hung limp and flaccid between his legs. Not the slightest twitch of arousal, but it still quivered and bobbed constantly as Komaeda trembled and shivered and wobbled as if buffeted by a wind only he could feel. It was weirdly mesmerizing. She wondered if his disease could make his body lie as well or if it he only had to tell his lies. She wondered what would happen if she were to slip her mouth around him, would he-

She cut that thought off abruptly.

What was _wrong_ with her?

He was her patient, wasn’t he?

It wasn’t even as if she found Komaeda attractive. He was mean and kind of crazy… she didn’t really like that word, but it fit since she didn’t really understand what it was that made him act the way he did. He didn’t care about them, any of them, except for maybe Hinata. For all the vital, frantic energy that seemed to vibrate through him, he had always seemed … fragile, weak, as if he were on the verge of shaking apart at any moment.

She wondered again if he’d been sick, before they’d met, if he was still sick… not with the despair disease, but with something… deeper, more serious. Whether he’d been lying when he’d said he was fine when she’d asked if he needed to be looked over last week… had it really been only a week that they’d been on the island together?

Somehow it seemed so much longer.

Somehow it seemed like she’d known Komaeda for years. Years and years and if she thought about it she could almost, _almost_ remember what it felt like to have him beneath her, inside her…

Startled by the sudden thought, she shivered as a sudden chill ran like sweat down her spine, her face warm with embarrassment. She tore herself away from his desperate grip and hurried to fetch the fresh robe from its hook by the door. She thrust it out at him blindly, staring hard at anything, _everything_ but him.

“P-P-Please put it on,” she whimpered.

_He lay beneath her almost silent apart from the wheezing labor of each breath, his face turned away to the side most of the time as if he hadn’t been the one to suggest it, to tell her he needed her, wanted her, all the things she longed to hear even though she’d never wanted to hear them from him at all. In the end, it really wasn’t all that different from masturbation with one exception._

She wasn’t… she didn’t… she never would…

“Put it on!” She screamed, loud enough to wake the dead, as that strange, revolting fantasy did crooked pirouettes in her head, whirling to meet her no matter how she tried to flinch away from it.

_His hair was splayed out, filthy and dark against the dirty pillow, mouth smearing with red. His hips stuttered beneath her as her fingers worked frantically to bring her closer, gasping pleasure into the air as she clasped desperately at those cool, limp fingers with her free hand, squeezed her eyes closed and pictured her beloved as she finally came._

_The sound of his laughter, hoarse and terrible, pitched high on a pained groan echoed all around her._

Her skin crawled and itched and she rubbed the palm of her hand frantically against her apron as if she could rid herself of the feel of the cold, limp flesh. The uncomfortable squish of fingers that couldn’t hold her back.

She was going to be sick.

“I really prefer to be naked, but I’m sure you know what you’re doing,” he croaked, voice barely a whisper, as he finally took the robe she had shoved at him and fumbling into it.

She trembled, pulling her arms in to wrap around her waist, still not daring to look at him. He really was a terrible person, putting ideas like that in her head.

What was it about him that Hinata liked so much?

No, that wasn’t… that wasn’t true either.

Hinata didn’t… he didn’t… Hinata was just really kind. He was just being nice and worried about all of them just as much. He didn’t really _like_ him, obviously, he was just… just trying to keep them all safe by keeping an eye on him, that was all. That was… that was…

_“Was it good for you?” He’d asked, still laughing as she stumbled away towards the bathroom. “I hope so, because it wasn’t any good for me at all!”_

She turned abruptly and left the room. She had… had a responsibility to… check on the others. Make they were… that they were fine.

That everything was fine.

Just fine.

Everything was fine.

But it hadn’t been fine.

It hadn’t been fine even then, because it had all been a trick. A trap.

She’d remembered, slowly, so slowly, in bits and pieces as her fever rose. She remembered all the painful things. She remembered all of them as they’d been before, before her beloved had shown them the magnificence of despair and after as well. She had remembered Ibuki and Komaeda and her beloved most of all.

She remembered all of them, but she remembered some far better than others.

Her beloved was brilliant and bold and beautiful, like bottled lightning.

Nanami Chiaki… was like newspaper faded and yellowed by the sun. She was just the sort of person that faded into the background.

It was the same with all the members of Ultimate Despair who hadn’t been in her class. She knew them, but they were… less important, more forgettable.

She remembered so many things that night and all during the following day as she went through the motions of caring for her patients. Her fever rose and she remembered more and more.

But she never remembered _him_.

Hinata Hajime.

He’d never been one of them at all, she knew that now, but at first… at first she hadn’t been able to believe it. To believe that he’d lied to them, to her, like that.

But it was true, of course.

He couldn’t understand them, couldn’t forgive them, because he wasn’t one of them.

He didn’t care about them at all.

He never had.

It had all been a lie.

It all seemed so dreadfully obvious now, looking back on all those days they’d spent together.

He had _lied_ to them.

He didn’t _like_ them. He didn’t _love_ them. They weren’t _friends_.

He certainly wouldn’t forgive her.

How _could_ he? After all they had done? The only one who would ever be able to forgive her, love her, was her beloved.

There was no hope.

There was only…

_Despair._

And it had been a most _extraordinary_ despair that she’d felt in the early hours of morning as she had returned to Komaeda’s bedside, as she had found herself staring so intently at each labored breath he took. She contemplated whether she should take his pillow and press it over his face, hold it there, whether he would struggle at all if she did or whether he might simply slip away.

She wondered how Hinata’s face might look if he were to come in and find he’d passed away in the night, to find whatever game they’d been playing had been brought to such a swift and meaningless conclusion.

What had they been to each other?

Did it even matter?

Whatever they had been to each other… it wasn’t _real_.

It was just another lie.

She should have killed them both that night when she’d had the chance or, better yet, killed one and then killed the other the next morning after she’d been able to experience their despair at finding the other carved up like a Christmas goose.

Should have.

But she hadn’t. 

Instead she’d gotten lost in thought about what would best serve her beloved’s purpose instead, about what would bring the truest despair and morning had come and with it Hinata, smiling and kind, asking her how she was, how Komaeda was and she’d lost her opportunity.

As the day wore on, she’d remembered more and more and remembering had given her such a strange and sublime feeling of connection, of purpose. She’d finally known who she was and- most importantly- what she was meant to do. It let her see the _truth_. Gifted her with the knowledge that she could best honor her beloved by aiding her avatar unasked.

It was such a wonderful feeling. 

But, in the end, it had amounted to nothing. All her hope had crumpled to dust in her hands and perhaps that was the point. She’d been _hoping_ when she was meant to _despair_. She really couldn’t blame her beloved from being cross with her, for punishing her.

For leaving her in that place all alone.

It was what she deserved for failing so utterly. 

Sometimes she screamed her apologies to the uncaring skies and sometimes she whispered them against the sheets of that bed. Sometimes she used ragged, broken fingernails to carve them into walls or floors.

The world was littered with her apologies and yet the only answer she’d received was silence.

  
+++  
**DAY THREE**  
-continued-

  
“Are you _jealous_? Of Hinata Hajime?” Her voice was teasing, curious, edging into a pout. “I thought I was the one you loved.”

“You are, of course, of course, you are,” she whispered quickly, fervently. “You’re my beloved, I… I just…”

It had been different before. When she’d been a mere shadow of her truest self, just a strange incomplete memory. She’d been so eager to be of use, she’d wanted him to look at her, see her, only her.

She remembered lying with Hinata in this bed.

Remembered how it felt to slide her trembling hand along that bare strip of skin where his crisp white dress shirt had ridden up as he slept. She had wanted to lick the sweat from his skin, slide her tongue into the dip of his belly button, loosen his belt and push a hand down… 

But she hadn’t.

 _Of course_ she hadn’t.

That would have been… _wrong_.

She wanted him to… _want_ her to touch him, to be with him. She liked him so much, so very much. He was so perfect and beautiful and he’d been… _kind_ to her.

That had to mean _something_ , didn’t it? It had to mean something and so she could wait. She could be good. She’d be rewarded in the end, wouldn’t she? Rewarded for her patience, forgiven her transgressions. 

Everything would be okay. 

He liked her. He’d said it again and again, hadn’t he? He liked her, so it was… it was fine.

But it hadn’t been fine. Not really. 

Everyone disappointed her in the end.

No one ever forgave her like they were supposed to.

She blinked once and then again, her eyes stinging as she wiped the damp of rainwater from her face with the back of her hands, sniffling.

Why was she thinking about all this again?

It was in the past and it hadn’t been real at all. None of it really mattered.

All that mattered now was finding him.

She was needed, necessary, she had to find him before it was too late, save him from himself. She was the only one who could do it. He needed her to make him well again, to make him whole again, even if he didn’t understand that yet.

He’d understand soon enough.

Soon enough he’d understand that Hinata Hajime had been nothing but an awful lie. That he was just as alone and unwanted as she had been. That there was nothing left for him but her.

That he _needed_ her… even if no one else did.

She scrambled back off the bed and hurried from the room, her mind already racing with questions:

Where would he be?

What place would call him back again and again?

The hotel?

The amusement park?

The central island?

The beach?

The _other_ beach? 

It was an island. Shouldn't there have been more beaches?  
  
Where would he be?

Where would he go?

How had he died? She’d seen his wounds, the ones on his bare legs and thighs, the bloodstains on his stolen shirt, but they told her nothing about where he’d been when they happened. 

Had he been murdered?

Executed?

Did it matter?

Where?

Where should she look first?  
  
"It's fine, you'll figure it out, I believe in you, pupupu!"

"Oh, thank you! Yes, yes, of course, I'll find him. I'll help him, you'll see. You won't be disappointed!" She smiled, ringing out her hair as she hobbled back across the room to the door.

It was fine.

She’d find him eventually.

After all, they had nothing but time. 

As the door fell closed behind her and Nagito allowed himself to take a deep, shuddering breath that shifted the pile of blankets he’d hidden himself beneath and sent some of the papers fluttering to the floor.

Seemed his luck was still good after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Broken Narrative:** Mikan's POV is intentionally very broken, stumbling back and forward through time and colored by her changing perspective, purposefully erratic. I've used it in this story before and you'll see it pop up again, but it's the most extreme it will be here. :)
> 
>  **Days and Days and Days:** As you probably noticed during earlier Komaeda chapters the flow of time is a wee bit different for these two. There is absolutely a reason for that.
> 
>  **Hinata in the Hall:** The conversation about sleeping in the on-call room happened in the hall because Hinata had gone to ask if Mikan wanted something to eat, but he got sidetracked returning Ibuki to her room. He was coming back out when Kazuryuu poked his head in to ask about him going up to take nap. He was tired enough that he'd completely forgotten why he'd come out there in the first place at that point. I assume Ibuki _constantly_ talked herself into wandering off during their hospital stay. Consequently, she's also the reason Kazuryuu went into the hall while Mikan was upstairs sleeping in the on-call room. He put Ibuki back to bed and then ducked into Komaeda's room to tell her about it and found Komaeda barely breathing and Mikan nowhere to be found.
> 
>  **On-Call:** So, there are two ways to look at Mikan's invasion of Hinata's bed. There's the way it was almost certainly meant (fan service ahoy) and there was the way it actually comes across which is as an incredibly creepy personal violation. She crawls into bed with him while he's sleeping. They aren't super close, she wasn't there with him when he went to sleep nor was she expected and in no way did she have his consent to do so. It's debatable how much she actually understands personal boundaries, but any way you slice it, Mikan abandoned her patients to snuggle up to someone who didn't invite her to do so. 
> 
> **Komaeda's Hiding Place** : It'll be covered more next chapter, but he used the sharp-edged grate to carve out a hole in the mattress to huddle in so he could hide under the blankets and assorted debris without it being dead obvious that he was under there and then relied on his luck to see him through.


	11. Fell Down South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Komaeda Nagito is lost and found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dropping updates like it ain't no thing (for once). As always, you should review the tags for changes. I write unpleasant things. This is (more or less) a direct continuation of Komaeda's PoV from two chapters ago.

_“All I want is someone who likes me."_  
_"All I want is a clear sign," I said._  
_"All I want is a magical horse that fits in my pocket," Wil said. "And a ring of red amber that gives me power over demons. And an endless supply of cake.”_  
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear

 **+++**  
**DAY THREE**  
-continued-

He couldn’t stop laughing.

The sound of her clumping up and down the hallway was stirring panic to hysteria in his chest and he couldn’t stop the flow of laughter bubbling up past his lips. He’d buried his face against his bare knees, terribly conscious of the fact that there wasn’t really anywhere left to hide.

There never had been, really.

The hall had been so long, so long, but every door had only led to another room identical to the last.

Another and another and another, each room was just as cluttered as the last. The same bed, the same bank of windows, the same curtains and boxes and disused equipment, everything just exactly the same as the last down to the tape dispenser he’d thrown at one of windows in the seventh or eighth iteration of the room he’d entered that was now lying discarded on the floor.

Each room had been an exact copy of the on-call room from the hospital or at least he thought so, he wasn’t sure. It hadn’t really been important at the time and so he hadn’t paid it as much mind as he had some of the other rooms. He remembered the patient rooms, the conference room, even the lobby, but his memory of the on-call room… was vague at best. The rest he’d needed to remember in case Hinata didn’t… but the on-call room had been… unnecessary. He remembered the bed and the windows and that it had been stuffed full of junk, but that was it. And after he’d died… well, he’d avoided the hospital on general principle. He’d spent more than enough time in hospitals in his life. So he hadn’t had any intention of spending whatever the heck this was in one as well.

The irony was spectacular, really.

He’d run and run, crashing into room after room, slamming into windows, throwing things, searching for… something, anything that was different, that would help, but there was  _nothing_. Just more of the same, over and over again until he realized he was on the second floor standing in front of the last room.

The end of the line.

And now he was trapped.

Completely and utterly trapped in this hospital, in this room, in this… whatever it was.

Because whatever this was, it wasn’t what he’d thought.

It couldn’t be.

Not if he was right about Hinata.

Not if he was right about  _her_.

There were no exits, just doors and more doors and windows that didn’t open, wouldn’t break.

There was no way out.

There was only _her_.

Always her.

Her and the sudden persistence of memory seeping into his skin as if he were some demented child’s coloring book and someone kept scribbling blood across his pages, sloppily filling in all the bits he’d been missing. Slowly erasing whatever had been done to him to… fix him, to reset him to who he’d been before all that despair.

And it was terrifying.

And he didn’t know how to make it  _stop_.

It had been little things at first.

He pressed a door open and he’d remember doing laundry late at night because someone had poured ink down the back of his gym uniform. Sitting on the table in a t-shirt and shorts, waiting for the cycle to finish, staring up at the ceiling and wondering if this meant he would have good luck the next day. If he would be able to score well on his English test even though he hadn’t bothered to study.

He’d rattle a window and he’d remember watching the reserve course students run laps. Remember thinking how much they looked like ants trudging about their mundane, simple lives in neat orderly lines of black and white. He often wondered if the school instructed them to run past the main building each day on purpose. Whether it was a reminder to them that the rest of the world was less special than they or if it was a reminder to the reserve class of the heights they could never attain.

Either way it seemed needlessly cruel. 

Reality was what it was after all.

What was the point of rubbing it in?

It seemed so stupid at first.

Pointless.

But it kept happening again and again, over and over. He made an attempt at escape and he was greeted by some new fragment, some new useless, pointless sliver of memory trivia.

Cutting his hair because someone had put gum in it.

The family accountant stealing away with his inheritance, but getting in a horrific bus accident two days later so all the money had been recovered by investigators… only there had been a lot more than what he should have had in the accounts. He remembered trying to tell the investigators that it wasn’t his, but they’d signed it over to him anyway with condescending smiles.

Stealing cheap jewelry from a department store because he’d liked the way it glittered.

Bashing someone’s head in with a baseball bat, watching it burst and crack and ooze all over the sidewalk, splattering across his cuffs, his shoes, spray doting his shirt, his face. Hitting it over and over until there had been nothing left but mush. How his arms and back had ached after, how hard it had been to catch his breath.

It just kept going, on and on, each new memory as bad or strange or nauseating as the last.

Memories of maggots on his skin, of his head ringing with pain again and again.

Memories of easy conversations with a girl he didn’t know.

Anonymous sex with people he couldn’t see or feel or care about.

The caress of a blade slicing across his thighs and the memory of his own laughter ringing in his ears again and again as if the whole world was funny or nothing ever was.

He just wanted it to  _stop_.

But it  _didn’t_.

He couldn’t stop hoping that if not this door or this window then maybe the next or the next or the next would be his answer.

But it  _wasn’t_.

He kept running and the memories kept coming, falling down like rain, too fast to make much sense of some of them.

And she was always right  _there_ , just out of sight, calling out to him, pushing him through exhaustion towards the looming threat of despair, her uneven steps echoing all around him.

He’d stumbled up the stairs to the second floor shooed along by those footsteps and that voice, still searching for an escape route and finding nothing.

Nothing but dead ends and increasingly vile memories lying in wait like rusty, bear traps.

And then he’d reached the last room.

The last room and it had been just like all the others. So he’d locked the door and sat down against it, too exhausted to go even a step further and he’d thought that at least those memories would stop coming.

But they hadn’t.

It hadn’t even mattered that he wasn’t trying anymore, because those memories just kept coming anyway, slipping inside, worse and worse each time even though he’d reached the end of the line and all there was left to do was sit slumped, defeated, against the last door in the last room, laughing.

The tiles were unpleasantly cool against his bare ass.

He was sure pressing his back against the door wouldn’t actually keep the door closed, wouldn’t really keep her out if she found a way around the lock, but he couldn’t quite convince himself to give up that last token piece of resistance, to give in just because it seemed inevitable.

No, he’d cling to hope until the last moment even if he really was little more than the last rat left on a sinking ship, digging his nails into the hull and holding on until the water swallowed him up.

It was pathetic, really. 

 _He_  was pathetic.

Filthy and wretched and hardly worth the air he was breathing. 

He could almost feel her hands on him again, fingers tracing up his thighs with nails sharp enough to bleed him dry.

He shifted uncomfortably, squirming away from the phantom sensation, his sweaty skin peeling unpleasantly off the tile.

Panic rose again, sharp and vile.

Where were his  _pants_?

Had he taken them off himself? Or had she?

He kept grasping for that terrible blankness, that placid emptiness he felt sometimes where everything was numb and nothing much mattered, but he couldn’t find it anywhere.

It was just… gone.

Gone like Hinata.

Gone like his pants.

Gone like whatever claim he’d ever had on sanity, maybe.

He could feel everything and it was  _awful_.

Why?

What was the  _point_?

He was supposed to be  _dead, wasn't he?_

So, why was  _she_  there?

It was one thing to imagine Hinata, but she… she wasn’t… she wasn’t  _anything_  to him. Not really. Nothing but a bad taste in his mouth, a strange voice in his ear, a knife…

**+++**

He was screaming, fingers clawing at the air, unable to find purchase, screaming again as agony flashed up his arm as he attempted again and again to flex fingers that were no longer there. Fingers that weren’t his, fingers he could see, but never feel.

His screams were barely more than croaking groans, the stuff of horror films come to life, gasped into the stale air.

Everything hurt, but his side most of all, lava running molten and terrible in his veins. She’d said something about an infection, but he hadn’t been able to understand much of it.

It all just sounded like gobbley gook and since he’d lost his voice to screaming days before there had been no way to ask her for water, to tell her that he was pretty sure he had a fever. He couldn’t stop shivering and his throat burned and there was no relief.

Sometimes she gave him something for the pain… when she remembered.

She fretted mostly, pacing back and forth mumbling to herself about options and treatment plans and sometimes she seemed to forget he was there, but that was probably fair. Sometimes he forgot she was there too. Sometimes it was because he was so high that time seemed to stretch like taffy, gooey and thinning the more he tried to tame it, control it. Other times the pain was so much that it was all there was.

There weren’t a lot of times like this. Times where he was somewhere in-between.

It was funny, really.

Her hair was dirty, hanging in limp uneven clumps around her face as she moved, swaying and jerking with each step. She yanked on it every once in a while. Sometimes she ripped out little clumps, but if she noticed she gave no sign except to wiggle her fingers so the bits of hair fell away to the filthy, bloodstained carpet of the hotel room she was using as a makeshift recovery suite.

“I’ll have to drain it and pack the wound, it’s the only thing to do otherwise the infection might ruin everything.” She was just suddenly there, hovering over him with a scalpel and the beginnings of a crooked smile tugging at her lips, “I’m sorry, beloved. T-This might sting a little.”

**+++**

The memory of pain followed him back to the dark room and he clapped his good hand against his mouth to muffle a moan.

He couldn’t quite bring himself to pull his numb arm away from where it was trapped between his chest and his bent legs, too afraid that it wouldn’t be his. That it would be… that it would be… that he would be….

What had he… what... why… why did this keep… why did he keep seeing those things…?

Why?

Why?

_Why?_

**+++**

“It’ll be like therapy,” he explained, his hands spread wide across the table like a peace offering. “It just kind of… allows you an opportunity to make connections, build a support system.”

Nagito couldn’t help the smile that tugged across his chapped lips. Such a fanciful thought, such a  _hopeful_  thought, that all they needed was  _friends_.

He _liked_  it.

Liked that foolish hope shining so brightly behind the eyes of this cheap imitation. “You really believe it will help us?” He asked smiling and he wasn’t sure if it looked real or like a cheap put on, wasn’t even sure which was actually true.

He looked surprised. Was he the only one who had asked? Or simply the first he’d talked to about it. He hadn’t seen the others, but he knew they were here. Some of them, whoever had endured, he supposed.

It didn’t really matter all that much who had and who hadn’t before, but now with this new shiny hopeful something glittering before him, he  _wondered_.

“I think it’s a chance,” he replied slowly and Nagito sighed despondently as he dropped his head back against the back of the chair.

It was so difficult to get excited about such a wishy-washy answer.

Just seemed lazy really.

Wasn’t this one supposed to be lucky? 

Of course, he hadn’t ever  _seemed_  particularly lucky.

Or at least not lucky like he was lucky, caught in a spin cycle between good luck and bad never able to experience one without the other escalating the situation over and over again. 

No, he’s just been… a bit of a let down, really.

Just ordinary.

A pale imitation or something else entirely, he wasn’t sure.

He….

He hadn’t… had he known him? It  _seemed_  like he had. Seen him. Talked with him. Something. There was….

His head hurt.

His head almost always hurt, a dull ache that never quite subsided or sharp, throbbing needlepoints of pain scattering dancing puzzle pieces across his vision, making the world around him swim with colors and static and hate.

He wanted to  _leave_.

Why were they keeping him here?

Who was that?

Who was he?

Why had he come here? There was something… someone….

His hands didn’t match.

Was this a dream?

Why…?

A terrible whine burned his throat and he scrapped the fingers of his good hand frantically against the pale, slim stranger’s hand he couldn’t really feel at all.

A girl’s hand, her perfect, poison apple red polish glistening in the bright florescent light.

He had to get it off.

His fingers scrambled at his bare arm, at the mound of scarred misshapen flesh where two different shades of pale met.

“What are you…?” Hands reached out to stall him as his short, blunt fingernails carved divots in that flesh. “Oh, hey, no, stop, please don’t do that. It’s okay, we can… you’re gonna to hurt yourself, you….”

Someone was screaming.

No, laughing.

Someone was laughing, but it sounded like screaming.

A door burst open, slamming against the wall, there was shouting, voices snarling hate and rage and the clatter of chairs hitting the floor; the smack and thump of too many footsteps echoing in a too small space.

“You were told not to meet with them alone! What the hell were you thinking taking off the restraints? Do you have any idea who he is? What he’s done?”

“He’s not- what are you doing? Don’t! He’s- you’re going to hurt him! Let me just-”

“ _Motherfucker!_ ”

“Don’t hurt him!”

“Don’t hurt  _him_? That little fucker  _bit me_!”

“Stop it! What are you doing? What- you can’t just-”

The give of flesh beneath his teeth is as fresh in his mind as the taste of blood lingering in his mouth and the ringing in his ears. There were hands on his shoulders, on his arms, forcing him down until his cheek hit the cool, smooth surface of the table hard enough to jar a cry from his lips. They twisted his arms around behind his back as a pinprick of pain spiked in his throat and everything began to fade out. A feeling like wool blankets leaping up to wrap round and round, suffocating him within their scratchy folds. He can feel the table beneath him, the rough hands above him, but his muscles feel like pudding, his brain is slowly circling a drain, the drag of water pulling it round and round, closer to the dark fall at the end.

Round and round.

“-angerous! You think just because you’re valuable to the Foundation that you can do whatever you want? Do you have any idea-“

He had to  _move_.

“You have no idea what it’s like! It’s not their fault!”

To  _get away_.

“…class with her, but you didn’t-“

To go.

“…on’t know what it’s like-“

To…

“-won’t let you…”

Had to…

“…make people  _feel better_ -“

Had….

“-better off  _dead_.”

**+++**

_Dead._

That word dogged his heels as silence hemmed him in and darkness swallowed him down.

Rain fell like bullets against the window glass.

The wind crashed and rattled against them as if it were some great monster trying to figure out a way inside.

His heart leapt into his throat, lodging there as the door handle jiggled above him, once and then again. “Mister Komaeda? It’s time for you to take your medicine. Mister Komaeda, are you in there?”

Nails scratched loud across the surface and he could almost feel the pressure against his spine, tracing sharp over each bump.

“Just go away, please go away,” he sobbed brokenly, the words muffled to inaudibility against the dusty taste of his palm. “Just leave me alone, leave, just  _leave_. I don’t want to play anymore, I  _don’t_. Please just leave me alone. Please.  _Please._ ”

**+++**

He’d screamed and squirmed and writhed as the saw bit into the flesh of his forearm with a terrible squelching noise.

What they’d given him hadn’t been enough, not nearly enough and he could feel _everything_.

Hear everything.

Smell  _everything_.

The wet splatter of blood, the scent of copper and burning as the motor screeched and stuttered protest as the saw blade sliced through flesh and sinew and then caught and gnawed at bone. The world was blurry and he struggled futilely, kitten weak, to escape from the hands holding him down, from the live wire his body had become, conducting agony, sharp and all-consuming black and red hysteria, throbbing across the back of his eyelids, across the ceiling above him as he strained and fought to get away, away,  _away_.

He was sure he was screaming, still screaming, his jaw cracked open wide enough to split his face, but he couldn’t hear it, couldn’t hear anything beyond the whir of the saw and the squeal and grind of the blade against his bones.

“Jesus fucking  _wept_ ,” a voice snapped, shouting to be heard. “I freaking  _told_  you we should have knocked him out!”

“We tried knocking him out! All that drug did was make him loopy and hitting him just made him laugh!”

“You can do this, Komaeda! You’re a man, aren’t you? Suck it up!”

“We’re sawing his fucking arm off, Nidai! I don’t think a pep talk is gonna help!”

“The power of the human spirit is perseverance in the face of great hardship!”

“Yeah, yeah, dumbass, we’ve all heard the propaganda. You’re like a broken freaking record. Now shut the fuck up before I have Peko shave your sideburns off!”

“Would one of you just shove a freaking sock in his mouth already? If he keeps making that sound I’m just going to kill him myself and put him out of my misery.”

“Why don’t  _you_  shove a sock in his mouth, if you’re so damn keen? The rest of us are a little freaking busy at the moment, huh?”

“Fine, I will!”

Thick soft, salty cloth was pushed into his open mouth, too rough, too far, and he began to gag. He couldn’t close his mouth, couldn’t breath. He flailed his tongue against it uselessly, but he couldn’t push it out, every panicked movement, every scream just seemed pull it further in, further down his throat until it felt like he might swallow it, but there was too much, there was no end to it and it wouldn’t go down and it was everywhere and the more he tried to struggle, to cry out, to push it away, aside, the worse it got.

People were still shouting, but he couldn’t hear anything at all over the sound of his own silent, muffled, fading screams.

His fingers scrapped futilely, plaintively against the back of someone’s hand as his vision swam with more black than color.

Then big rough fingers were there, brushing across his face to pull the cloth free and toss it aside.

The saw spun and ground to a stop.

“It’s done,” a soft, clipped voice commented, loud in the sudden silence. “Bring the doctor. It’s time.”

Everything seemed very, very far away.

Everything except the pain which was close and white hot, radiating up his arm like a thousand tiny squirrels were nibbling away at everything from the shoulder down with viciously sharp teeth and claws. He tried to curl around it, but he couldn’t manage it.

His sweaty skin clung to the plastic they’d laid down over the covers, the springs of the cheap hotel bed squeaking protest as he struggled to move against restraints that pulled tight as his ankles, his stomach, his arms, legs.

It was so quiet he wasn’t sure where everywhere had gone, couldn’t quite manage to open his eyes enough to see. He kind of hoped he was alone when the first terrible grunting, hiccupping sob escaped his throat. When his teeth began clanking together, chattering like he was freezing even though everything seemed far too hot.

It was annoying, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

His hopes were dashed as laughter, high and childish, rang out. “That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”

“ _That’ll_ … fucking  _seriously_ , Saionji? Why are you even  _here_?”

“Moral support.”

“Oh, fuck  _off_. C’mon, let’s get out of here so they can get to work before he bleeds out or something.”

A door opened somewhere far away as big, rough fingers tousled his hair, “You did good, kid. You did real good.”

**+++**

The wind seemed louder now, howling outside the window, so loud it seemed like he shouldn’t be able to even hear himself think.

Mismatched footsteps lumbered away down the hall accompanied by that soft, murmuring voice.

Maybe she’d gotten bored with listening to him cry.

Not that it mattered.

She’d be back.

She  _always_  came back.

And the memories, they’d just keep coming back too, more and more and faster and faster, triggered by… what? Stray thoughts? Silence? Luck? All he really knew for certain was that they were getting _worse_.

Worse and worse and he couldn’t understand the  _point_.

Was this really Hell after all?

But that didn’t make sense did it, not… not if Hinata was…

Nothing made any sense.

They couldn’t both be real.

Not unless Hinata was dead too and even then… even then it didn’t make any sense.

He was missing something. He had to be missing something.

He…

He’d really liked detective novels best.

He’d read dozens and dozens when he was in the hospital, because he liked them and they were easy to find used.

He could usually guess who’d done it, most of the time.

Not always though.

Sometimes it was because the novel had been really clever, more often it was because the author had left out some critical piece of information and it felt like a cheat, a cheap trick, like watching a bad magician pick an obvious plant out of the audience.

It wasn’t his talent, of course, but he’d still thought it’d helped a little during the killing game.

He’d liked investigating, liked it best when Hinata had been with him, but… mostly he’d just liked it. Figuring out the who and the how and the why, thinking about how best to use the information he had to create a greater challenge for them and how to use it to help when it was necessary.

It was… really fun.

He’d really liked that part of the game, especially those moments during the trial when it felt like he and Hinata were the only ones playing and sometimes… sometimes he thought he’d seen the hint of a smile on his face, like he was really enjoying himself too. And he’d thought in those moments that they weren’t so different.

Of course, he’d immediately realized how foolish such a thought was, because they were all so fantastic and surely they’d have managed to find their answers without his meager contributions. Still, it had still been fun to pretend, even if it was only for a little while.

But during the last investigation, after he’d found out the truth about them, about himself… it hadn’t been fun anymore.

Nothing had been fun anymore.

This wasn’t much fun either.

It just… didn’t make any sense.

Why now? Why was he thinking about this, remembering all these things now?

 _Were_ they even really all memories? Wasn’t it just as liking that they were just delusions rather than actual memories? Wasn’t that more likely with the way they kept jarring loose and falling to the ground like coconuts?

But if they were memories…

Why now?

What had changed?

He’d been there for a long time, hadn’t he?

Such a long, long time just…  _stuck_. Stuck in a moment that never ended, reliving the same stupid day over and over and over again and then… and then…

Hinata.

It didn’t make sense, not really, but it was the only difference that had ever seemed to matter.

Hinata had come to see him again and again and then Hinata had overstayed his welcome and then the rain fell and everything began to change.

 _He_  began to change.

Was that what Hinata  _wanted_?

_“You’re special to me.”_

He felt suddenly sick again, nauseous.

Was that why he’d been there? Was he doing this to him on purpose? Was that why he’d kept coming back again and again? Why he’d stayed with him on the beach, in the hall? Why he’d been willing to  _touch_  him in the first place? Why he’d said all those  _things_?

Now that the idea was there he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop it from spinning around and around in his head like a top.

Because it had never made sense, none of it had ever made sense, but he hadn’t… he hadn’t wanted to see it. It was easier to pretend that he was a delusion, just his wants and desires brought to life to torment him.

But if he wasn’t... then it didn’t make any sense at all.

He was… no one wanted him. Not really. No one ever  _had_.

If this Hinata  _were_  real, if he  _wasn’t_  just his delusion then why would he do everything he had done?

What did he get out of it?

Out of leading him on?

Out of getting him off?

Out of pretending like he  _mattered_? Like he was  _important_?

Why would Hinata bother to act like he actually  _cared_  what happened to him?

What was the point?

What did he  _want_?

Of course, that was only if he  _were_  real which… didn’t make any sense at all, did it?

Wasn’t it easier just to think it was all just… just… w _hat?_

“Get it together,” he grumbled, dashing an arm across his eyes, before letting his head drop back against his knees.

It didn’t matter.

None of this really mattered.

He was… he was dead.

Dead.

He remembered killing himself.

He remembered how much it  _hurt_.

He  _couldn’t_  have survived that.

He’d made sure of that.

And if he were dead then it shouldn’t matter at all, nothing should.

_Nothing._

Not even  _Hinata_. 

So, why did everything still hurt? Why did he keep remembering all these things? Why was she here? Why was he? Why did he keep running, hoping?

What was he even hoping for at this point?

Why couldn’t he just let  _go_?

Stop thinking about  _it_ , stop thinking about  _him_?

Why had it hurt so badly to think that he might be a figment of his imagination?

Why did it hurt even more to think that he might not be? 

Why…?

What was he  _hoping_  for? 

_“Can you really hope for anything like this?”_

The thought floated up from somewhere deep inside like a single red balloon released to fly off into the sky to live out the last of its bitter, lonely existence.

“Shut up,” he whispered, thrusting his face harder against his bony knees.

_“You’re no one and nothing, not worth even the flesh your features have been printed on. Are you even a person like this? Bits and pieces melting away to reveal the dark underbelly, the despairing horror of who you once were. Letting it bleed through into your welcoming body. You won’t be able to stop it, you know. You won’t be able to do anything, but…”_

**+++ “Just shut up!” +++**

He was standing in the third floor hall at Hope’s Peak outside the game room and he felt sick, sick and exhausted by the outburst and his hand was clenched tight in his sweater. He was too hot, sweat gathering at the stiff white collar of his shirt and rolling cool and unbidden down his back. He shivered as a sudden chill gripped him, his cheeks felt numb, his tongue swollen as if he’d bitten it. His mouth was dry and he was breathing too much, too heavily. He could tell he was scaring him, but he… he didn’t know how to stop.

He hadn’t come here to scare him, didn’t want to,  _didn’t_.

That wasn’t… he’d… he’d come here… he’d come here…

_Her._

Right. He’d come here to warn him about her, because she was in their class now,  _his_  class, and so she was going to do... something. Something... he didn’t know the whole plan, the full plan, but with a little bit of luck he could still foil it.

Just… just a little luck, that was all he needed.

So he thought… he thought… he thought….

Had they always had a pool table in there?

His father had had a pool table. He’d scratched the delicate green felt surface and though he couldn’t really remember what the sting of the belt had felt like, he could remember curling his fingers around one of those shiny balls years later when there had been no one left to stop him or caution him or care. Curling his fingers around the smooth surface and pitching it out the fancy stained glass window that had dominated the room.

He’d cut his arm accidentally on purpose with on one of the broken pieces when he’d picked it up off the lawn sometime later.

The scar was thin and white. They’d thought he was trying to kill himself. It wasn’t the first time he’d been checked in for observation. It had been the last. He’d been more careful after.

Killing yourself wasn’t very hopeful at all.

Or maybe it hadn’t been a window he’d broken at all or a ball he’d thrown. No, maybe it had been a painting and he’d torn through it with a thrown broken cue and found a safe behind it and the code had been his birthday and inside there had been another million yen and a diamond as big as his little toe.

He was lucky, after all.

Which was true? Either? Both? None of the above?

What was the right answer?

Was there a right answer?

Had there ever been?

Did it matter?

Did he?

“Are you okay?”

He blinked, looking up to meet his gaze and he wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there lost in his own thoughts, but that… that one was still standing there, lingering beside him even though all his friends had already gone on ahead to class.

_Why?_

Why had he stayed?

Why had he bothered?

Pity?

Curiosity?

Did it matter?

Did he care?

Probably not.

“You’re Komaeda Nagito, right?”

He nodded and it was a quick, jerky, flapping motion like his head was on rusty hinge. He could almost hear the creak.

He was smiling at him. Really smiling. Smiling like he wasn’t weird at all, like he was glad to see him, spend time with him. Smiling at him like he was a person, a normal person, not scary or gross or off-putting.

“I’m Naegi Makoto. I’ve always wanted to meet you. Someone else who was like me, you know?”

He stepped back, shaking his head quickly, his other hand coming up to cradle his aching stomach, “We aren’t. Alike, I mean. I’m… I’m not… I’m…”

His head hurt. His head always hurt these days, like there were tiny trolls hammering at his temples, ringing bells in his brain.

His smile faltered. Of course, it did. He was weird. He was weird and he couldn’t be normal and he couldn’t do this. What had he been thinking? He wasn’t… wasn’t…

“Oh, um, okay, sorry, I just… you’re lucky too, right?”

That was funny, really funny, wasn’t it? That must be why he was laughing, but the sound seemed wrong, squealing and broken like a record scratching and Naegi’s eyes seemed to get bigger as if he were surprised or amazed and that just made him laugh that much harder.

He couldn’t do this. Why had he thought he could?

“You’re not lucky,” he had managed after a moment, the laughter dying a sudden and unremarkable death consumed by sudden sobriety. “You’re not lucky at all.”

Now he just looked confused.

“What do you mean?” He asked, like he really wanted to know.

He hadn’t remembered stepping close, but he must have because his fingers were trembling and caught in the smooth fabric of Naegi Makoto’s shirt. He leaned close, so close that his chapped lips were brushing and catching at the shell of his ear, his short dark hair tickling his cheek.

He smelled like boy and lunch and pineapples.

Why  _pineapples_?

He could feel him try to flinch away from him, but he hadn’t loosened his grip at all so Naegi wasn’t quite able to pull away. “You should never have come here. If you were really lucky, you’d never have been chosen at all.”

“What are you doing?” A stiff, irritated voice demanded and Nagito ducked back, releasing Naegi and stumbling away from the hand that might have settled against his shoulder.

“So, so sorry, Mr. Principal,” he forced a smile he didn’t feel to his lips as he waved his hands vaguely, unsure what he was trying to convey. “Was I being too loud again?”

The faceless, dark-haired man shrugged his featureless shoulders, “No, but you’re supposed to be in class, Mr. Komaeda. As are you, Mr. Naegi.”

“No sir, I was just on my way to the nurse’s office for my treatment,” Nagito replied, his face felt as if it might break into pieces at any moment. He wasn’t altogether sure it wasn’t already cracking apart, bits of brittle flesh falling away in flakes and flecks. His cheeks felt numb and fat, like they’d been injected with Novocain, so he probably wouldn’t even know until he saw pieces of himself scattered like corn flakes across the floor below, fragments of his chin or cheeks stuck fast to his worn sweater. “I’m very sick you know.”

The faceless man seemed to sigh, his shoulders slumping as if what he’d said had depressed him. He had that effect on people sometimes, even when he didn’t mean to. He really was just the most worthless slime to ever ooze across the earth. What was it she said? He was like her horseman of Despair, spreading it like a pestilence to any life he touched even when he didn’t intend to.

He didn’t want that.

This.

Didn’t… probably, but it was….

He shivered, clutching his stomach as it gurgled and cramped, burbling and uncomfortable. Had he eaten today? Yesterday? He wasn’t sure, wasn’t even really sure what day it was, week, month? May, maybe? June?

He needed… he needed to go, but… but… there had been something he had wanted to say, something important, something….

**+++**

The hall faded away and he was on the floor again, a misspent life away from that day.

What had he been trying to do?

He’d thought… he’d been part of Ultimate Despair, hadn’t he?

They all had, but he’d….

Nothing made any sense.

Who was he? Who had he been? Who was he supposed to be?

Why did it  _matter_?

 _Did_  it still matter?

Things had made sense before… when he’d been with Hinata things had been… better.

Easier.

Cleaner.

Hadn’t they?

He’d been distracted at least. It had been easy to just be in the moment, to not think to hard about the whys and wherefores and whodunits.

Why hadn’t he just  _stayed_  with him?

If he’d just stayed maybe none of this would have…

Or if it did, at least he would have been there.

Or maybe… maybe this was all his fault.

Maybe he’d filled in all the hollowed out places in his brain where there was nothing and no one anymore. Filled in the faded edges of memory with color and sound and distinction, made them real again, made them hurt again. Maybe he’d raised a whole world around him, within him, a piece at a time with songs and touches and all those stupid words. Maybe he’d coaxed the memories back in.

Why had he done that?

Had he done that?

Some of it?

All of it?

None of it?

There were so many things he didn’t know, didn’t understand.

He just kept going in circles. Round and round. Locked doors and endless halls and the same questions and no answers.

Where was the truth?

Was there a truth to be found at all?

Hinata was real.

Hinata was a lie.

Hinata was here.

Hinata was fantasy.

Was he dreaming Hinata or was Hinata dreaming him?

Did it even matter what was true?

What was the  _point_?

Were they just fulfilling childish, ill-conceived fantasies?

Was it only about fragile intimacy and messy release?

Teasing words?

Pointless arguments?

Sloppy kisses?

Hinata’s fingers brushing against his ticklish feet?

Had any of it been real?

Had any of it meant  _anything_?

The frantic worry he’d felt as he’d fished Hinata out of the water.

The way Hinata had pressed that towel so gently against his skin as if he were made of spun glass… as if he were something precious.

The way he’d felt when he’d woken up on the beach to find Hinata’s shirt still wrapped around him like a promise.

The feel of the glass of the jukebox cracking beneath his fist, pain springing to life in the soles of his feet, sitting with him in the hall, the ocean, the beach, the bridge, the hotel room and Hinata’s fingers in his chest making him feel... feel.

_Feel._

He couldn’t help but think that if he could just… just  _see_  him… if he could just  _talk_  to Hinata again than he would be able to make sense of it, that all those discordant notes would finally string themselves together into a melody he could understand.

If he could just…

But that was silly, wasn’t it?

He’d started laughing again at some point or maybe he’d never really stopped.

That was probably for the best though.

If he ever  _did_  manage to stop laughing, he was pretty sure he’d start screaming instead. Or maybe crying or maybe he’d just throw up in the corner, bite his own tongue off and hope he bled out before she got through the door to stop him.

Maybe he’d wake up on the beach again.

Maybe Hinata was still there, still waiting for him to come back.

That was a nice thought.

Maybe…

"Komaeda?"

He’d thought he was imagining it at first.

That croaking whisper was just barely audible beneath the sound of his own hysterical laughter as he sat up straighter against the door, his numb hand still cradled against his chest.

"Hinata?"

"You okay?" Came the ridiculous reply.

He wasn’t  _okay_ , he was pretty sure he’d never been anything like  _okay_  in his  _life_ , but… somehow he wasn’t the least bit surprised that Hinata had chosen to phrase it that way.

He didn’t understand him, he probably never would, but he  _knew_  him.

It was easy to doubt in the moments in between, but… caring about him even when he had given him every reason not to, every reason to hate him, to see him as the filthy trash he was and yet still, after everything, he knew Hinata would always, always, always… care enough to pretend.

Even when he hated him, he still  _cared_.

That wasn’t hopeful at all.

That was just  _stupid_.

But that was Hinata.

He didn’t want a useless, forgettable, no talent, ordinary everyday loser like Hinata Hajime to pity him like that.

He  _didn’t_.

And yet, for some reason, he couldn’t stop smiling.

Hinata really was just the very worst protagonist ever.

What was he even still doing  _there_?

If this was all a dream… if Hinata was real… why didn’t he just  _go_? Just leave? Why hadn’t he woken up?

He wasn’t… he wasn’t anything worth caring about, but he was still special, talented, in a way Hinata Hajime never could be, never would be, but he still wasn’t… worth this kind of effort. He never had been. They were different, so different, like the sun and sea.

The whole situation was… hopeless.

 _They_  were hopeless.

They were really, really  _hopeless_.

He couldn’t be saved.

He was already dead.

_“You’re special to me.”_

But that… that was Hinata, wasn’t it?

Hinata wanted to be special, hadn’t he? He’d admired talent.

What was more special than a hero?

He laughed again eyes clenched shut as the truth finally, finally, finally found a home in his chest as bile rose in his throat, strangling that laughter until it turned into a great wrenching cough.

Only the real thing could ever make him feel like this.

He really hated that about him.

Pieces were falling, slotting into place and he couldn’t quite see the whole picture yet, couldn’t quite reach that final truth, but this… this at least he  _knew_.

This he could understand.

This he could play along with.

Just… just for a little while, until Hinata finally realized the truth and left him alone for good.

"Wonderful," he managed finally, muffling his cough against the back of his good hand. "You?" 

"Yeah, I'm really great.” There was a soft laugh. Hinata sounded as tired as he felt, "I really hate this place."

"Yeah, me too,” he replied on a sigh.

On this, at least, they could agree.

Funny.

His chest ached as he dropped his head back to rest against the wall, staring up at the white ceiling, panels pockmarked with tiny holes. He imagined spiders living inside them, hatching and crawling out on long, hairy, spindly legs, thousands and thousands streaming across the ceiling, climbing down the wall to eat him alive.

“I'm so tired of hospitals. Seems like I live in the revolving door, never quite managing to leave before I’m back all over again. Are you in my head?"

He’s not sure why he asked, what he expected in answer.

Hinata snorted.

It was a funny sort of sound, one that made his lips quirk and his stomach tremble in response even before Hinata actually replied, "Don’t be stupid, I’m right here.”

And if he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend he was. Could almost,  _almost_  believe that he was right  _there_ , close enough to reach out and touch if he wanted. He could almost see the tight-lipped smile that would curve across his lips, almost feel the press of his forehead as it fell against his shoulder.

That soft, strange thought made him squirm a little, uncomfortable in his own skin.

It was easier when he was thinking nasty things about him. Sex things. So much simpler to imagine jerking him off or licking down his spine, pressing his cheeks apart and licking inside and…

Huh.

He couldn’t quite picture it.

The words were there, rattling around in his head like coins in an empty jar, but the fantasy was flat and lifeless, lying limp and impotent in his head. It didn’t consume him, didn’t distract him.

It was… nothing.

Boring.

Silly almost, like a child playing dress up in too large, ill-fitting clothes pretending at a life he didn’t know.

Instead there was only the imagined reality of Hinata’s breath blowing warm against the shell of his ear, Hinata’s lips pressing chaste kisses against his hair, cool fingers tangling with his own, gripping hard. It was as if the imagined weight of Hinata’s head falling against his shoulder had broken something within him, left him raw and bleeding fantasy all over the cool tiles.

Still, he found himself smiling in response, soft and teasing and it… it felt good. It was easier to talk with him like this. Easier than it had ever been when they were face to face, when Hinata was actually close enough to touch. “I don’t see you. Are you  _sure_  you’re not just in my head?”

“Quit it. It’s dark as hell so there’s nothing to see and why would I  _joke_ about something like that?” Hinata replied and suddenly he sounded… confused, uncertain, almost nervous, as if he’d just been told a joke and suspected he might be the punch line.

“It isn’t dark where I am or at least not that dark anyway. Are you in the conference room? That’s a terrible hiding place," he murmured, though he remembered too late that there wasn't a conference room anymore. Not here. 

He wasn't sure what options that left. 

It made him feel like Hinata was right.

Like maybe he was in on the joke after all.

It made him feel sick, more uncomfortable than before, the hesitation in Hinata's voice. He’d heard a lot of jokes like that over the years, mean jokes, the kind that hurt, but he’d never been one to tell them.

Well… probably never.

 _Maybe_  never, but it was hard to know for sure because everything wasn’t where he’d left it and he still didn’t know enough and he probably never would.

It wasn’t as if he even really wanted to. So maybe he had been that sort of person when he had been lost in despair, when he had broken beneath the pressure of his life, when he had been  _hers_.

Whose?

“Me,” that soft, insidious voice called from just beyond the closed door, the click and clack of heels had paused and he could almost feel the press of a slim hand against his back, nails digging into his spine as the doorknob rattled.

His head ached.

“You were, you know,” she continued, casually, as if they were speaking of the weather. Words crawling like worms through the wood, boring through the door to slip past the imagined warmth of Hinata into his ear. “Mine, I mean. You cast so many into despair in the search for your precious hope. Oooo… do you want to hear all about it? I wouldn’t mind telling you. We have time, you know, we have all the time in the world. I…”

He shook his head, quick and violent, hissing a reply beneath his breath. “Go away,  _stop_ , you’re not real… you’re not  _anything_.”

“Oh, come on, Nagito, don’t be such a party pooper. Maybe you’d like it better if I told you all about him instead? Boring little nobody Hinata Hajime?” Her voice turned sly, slick as oil, “Or maybe you’d rather hear about Kamukura Izuru?”

Kamukura.

_Izuru._

He’d heard that name before. Somewhere….

Oh.

Right.

He remembered the way Hinata had changed. In the bed, on the bridge, in the hallway staring down at him with eyes that felt nothing as he swallowed around him.

_Izuru._

Who was Hinata Hajime?

Why did he have something like that living inside him?

What was he?

**+++**

The boat creaked.

It didn’t seem like it should have. It wasn’t old or rickety, but something was creaking all the same beneath the purr of the distant engine, the constant slap of the water against the hull.

He’d been sleeping and his head was muddy, thick and slow, and his mouth tasted like cotton, sticky and dry. The constant motion made him feel a little sick, dizzy, made it difficult to focus. He reached out a hand to steady himself and winced as old pain shot up his arm like electricity. He didn’t cry out, but it was a close thing. He hadn’t been expecting it, but he was used to that sort of thing.

Used to it, because he… it had been like this for a long time, hadn’t it?

“Where…?” The question came out more croak than word.

Silence and the splash and slap of ocean waves were his only answer.

He opened his eyes, gazing out the window beside him at the deep blue sea stretching out to meet the perfect blue of the sky beyond. Not a cloud in the sky. He wondered if it were warm out there. If it was that warmth couldn’t reach him at all. 

It was the soft rustle of cloth that alerted him to the fact that he wasn’t alone. He turned his head to find the source of the noise sitting in a dark corner as far from the bright sunlight shining through the window as one could be and still be in the metal box of a room in which they were… trapped?

No, maybe ‘trapped’ wasn’t the right word.

He seemed to vaguely recall agreeing to get on the boat even though he didn’t remember coming abroad.

Maybe locked was more appropriate, because he was pretty sure that door would almost definitely be locked.

For a moment the person sitting there seemed as if he weren’t even really a person at all, but just darkness weaved into a person’s shape, but once his eyes adjusted to the dim he saw it was just a man, young, maybe his age. He was sprawled like a broken doll leaning against the wall, his hands were pale and open in his lap, black-clad legs spreading like shadows across the floor. Long dark hair fell around him, over him, like a blanket, spilling across the metal floor in swirls and swoops like ink, like the characters of a language he couldn’t understand. His features were lost in shadow, turned to the wall he leaned against and further obscured by all that dark hair.

He watched him sleep for a long time, occasionally jostled by the pitch of an unexpected wave.

It was…weirdly peaceful, if kind of boring.

At least the view was nice.

Eventually his companion stirred, slowly, the first sign that he was waking up was that his hands had fallen away from his lap to brace against the floor, leaning first this way then that as if trying to get his bearings, gather his wits, before raising his head.

He was beautiful and he had the strangest expression on his face. It wasn't quite a smile, not exactly. It was like the prelude to a smile, the twitch of muscles trying to bring an honest expression to a lie.

It reminded him, absurdly, of Shingetsu Nagisa.

When he’d still been playing servant to those hopeless children, he’d noticed little things about them. He’d rarely cared enough for it to matter, but he noticed them all the same. Sometimes something would happen, a child would kill an adult in a particular way or Monaca would show them some off-hand, unintentional crumb of kindness or approval and the others would smile or grin, but Nagisa would always hesitate, lingering on the cusp of happiness as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it was real, that it was safe to react to it in such a blatant way. But the idea of joy would linger across his lips, a subtle twitch before vanishing back into his usual scowl.

Still, because he watched, because he noticed, he could tell he was happy, that he had enjoyed whatever had happened.

This was a bit like that. Though he didn’t think it was fear that was holding his smile back. It was more like he didn’t know how as if the mechanism that allowed him to smile was broken.

It was interesting.

"Do you...like ships?" He asked, suddenly when his companion opened his eyes at last.

Awkward. So awkward.

He could see a note of confusion in the way his brow furrowed just ever so slightly as he looked at him as he turned to stare at him.

His eyes were red, red as apples or blood or the nails on his left hand.

They were disconcerting, but that was kind of nice too.

The sudden scrutiny made him feel nervous and he laughed, but just made him feel more awkward. 

"You looked like you were having fun, so that's what I assumed... You do like ships, right?"

"...Ships?" Came the slow, almost cautious reply. Fingers brushed against that furrowed forehead, before dropping to press against the floor again as the boat dipped and swayed around them. "Ah, that's right...that's it. So this  _is_  a ship." 

He laughed again, surprised. It felt a little easier that time, more natural. "You just realized that now?" 

"...is it really that funny?" He asked, as if he were honestly curious as if the concept of humor escaped him entirely.

It wasn't and it was, but something about how he’d said that made him feel embarrassed about it, made him feel uncertain like maybe he didn’t understand why he’d found it funny either and just like that the laughter was gone, all dried up like a spill of water in the sun.

Silence lingered between them and as he watched the interest in those strange eyes died away and they were as flat and dead as his own eyes looked sometimes when he stared too long at his reflection in the mirror. He grasped for something to say, anything to bring that spark of life back again, "Hey, if you want, care to talk a little? The silence was starting to bore me."

He answered with silence again and the slightest of nods.

That was lucky.

He smiled, feeling relieved, he’d been so sure he was going to say no or, worse, nothing at all. A nod was still something.

"Nice to meet you... I'm Komaeda Nagito. Anyway... lucky me. It’s been a while since anyone was willing to talk to me so to share a room with a person like that... Yep, I’m definitely lucky."

"...Lucky? Ah, so that’s your talent then,” he answered, gaze shifting towards the window again and away from him. “...what a boring talent."

He didn’t disagree, exactly, but still….

"A boring talent, huh…? Well, that’s exactly what it is… But for someone I’m meeting for the first time to say that so suddenly…”

“That’s because I have luck as well.”

“…Huh?”

“Even I possess a talent as boring as luck.”

“P-Possess, huh?” He echoed the word, the strange way he’d said it, like it meant something more than the obvious. Excitement simmered in his veins, making him feel antsy, unsettled. “I’m starting to get really interested! Who  _are_  you? You’re obviously from Hope’s Peak Academy too, right?”

Another one of those tiny nods and he felt his smile growing wider, so wide it made his cheeks ache until it fell away a moment later. “So you’re one of us? Ah, but that’s weird… this is the first time I’ve ever seen you…”

Silence again, but then he hadn’t really asked a question at all, so maybe that was his fault. Maybe he had to be more specific… if he wanted to know.

“Hey, can you tell me why you’re here? How did you end up here?”

His gaze shifted away again, falling to study the floor rather than the world outside the window. “…How boring.”

Nagito sighed, letting his head fall back against the wall, “Ah, sorry…I’m often told I’m terrible at making conversation…”

“Not you…” He answered, voice soft and almost gentle as he raised his head to meet his gaze again. “…This world.”

“Huh…?”

“This world is full of boring people. People who lack talent stick together, and oppress those who do possess talent…” As he spoke he leaned forward, but his voice stayed level, even, as if despite the intensity of his gaze he couldn’t quite summon up the emotion to match it, to make that intensity into the fervor it aped. “Even though they know they’re insignificant, they don’t try to acknowledge their true superiors… they are profoundly desperate to drag them down to their level… and because of these bastards, this world has come to a deadlock. This world has stopped evolving.” He dropped his gaze to the floor again, the glimmer of interest slipping away, his gaze going dead and lifeless once more. “…How boring.”

“Well,” he began slowly, thoughts falling into lines like dominos in a way they rarely seemed to these days. “The world is shaped by the will of the majority… It makes sense that it bends to those who lack talent.”

He felt that gaze on him again, that interest, that attention again sparking to life again and it made him feel jittery, excited, like he’d gotten an answer right on a quiz he hadn’t realized he was sitting for. “That’s why we’re in our present situation…”

He trailed off, wondering, but the gaze lingered as if urging him to ask the question forming in his mind. “Ah, perhaps… does that have anything to do with the reason you’re here?”

He was silent for long moments as if he were deciding what to say or how to say it. When he did finally speak, it was almost a disappointment: “Boring people make no contributions to the world… not even a speck of dust….”

It sounded like he was quoting someone verbatim, his gaze drifting away to the window again, going vague and unfocused. “That’s why my teachers taught me that a certain degree of selection must be performed.”

He stared at him for a long moment in silence, wondering who those teachers were, what they’d wanted him to be. Whether those teachers had died in the chaos of the past few years.

He kind of hoped they had though he wasn’t quite sure why.

“Looks like they had high expectations for you, huh?” He commented finally, following his companion’s gaze to the window, but seeing nothing but the same endless sea. “That’s completely different from me.”

After all, no one had ever expected much of him or wanted him around at all really. He did sometimes wonder that was like, to be wanted or to have someone expect something… anything from him, but not so often these days as he once had. Sometimes he wondered if that was because he was so hopeful for a future beyond anyone’s expectations or because he’d simply given in to the despair of never knowing. “But… what are you planning to do? Now that you’ve ended up like this, there’s nothing you can do, right?”

He was interested again, gaze snapping back to the room, away from the window. His eyes seemed to glitter and glow as he leaned forward, vivid and bright, suddenly teeming with something like life. He was really… something. “Listen well: using people is a talent, too. It is now my turn to use that person just as they used me in the past.”

He had a momentary urge to lean forward, to scoot across the distance between them, to kiss the words off his lips, but he had little doubt how that would end. He didn’t want to see him that vague, disinterested gaze turn away from him once and for all.

“That person….” He echoed eventually, mind churning, but only one possibility leapt to mind. He looked around the room, just a quick darting glance, but there was no sign of listening devices or cameras to be seen. Just plain, flat, boring metal. “Are you talking about Ultimate Despair?” He asked finally, sly and cautious.

The glimmer in his eyes at that hissed question was more than answer enough. 

He could feel a smile trembling on his lips like a song, excitement quivering in his belly. “But how?” He asked, tone still hushed. “I mean, they’re already…”

“…I have it with me,” he murmured, patting his jacket gently. “The contribution that person left to me…. Even now, it rests in my pocket….”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about…” And he didn’t, not really, wasn’t certain that any of this made any sense at all, but he liked the sound of it, liked the hope it ignited in his chest. He laughed again, grinning wide and wild, “I’m definitely lucky! I can’t believe I’m speaking with someone as amazing as you! Then… will I be able to see her again? Will I be able to see the person I hate with every fiber of my being again? And this time…”

Excitement was bubbling and breaking apart what little calm he’d been able to manage and he couldn’t sit still, he needed to get up, to move. He needed to pace this little room that was too small, far too small to contain his jubilance. He wanted to grab his hands, pull him to his feet, spin with him in circles, round and round, like they were little kids until they fell into a heap on the ground. 

But when he went to stand, he found he couldn’t quite manage it, tipping to the side and catching himself against the wall with her hand, barely noticing the ache of impact. Suddenly he was exhausted as if even this was too much effort for his weak, pathetic body to take.

He breathed out a shaking sigh, steadying himself against the wall and settling back down again before turning his gaze back to the beautiful hope sitting opposite him staring at him with those glittering red eyes, “Will I be able to kill her this time? The person I hate so much?”

He was so lucky.

So very, very lucky.

His companion was silent for so long this time he thought he might not speak at all.

“Hate…?” He asked finally, his head tilting inquisitively. “Then… explain your hand.”

“Ah… this…?” He wasn’t exactly surprised to be asked. Most people asked if they saw it, it wasn’t exactly _subtle_  after all. It was one of the reasons he usually kept it covered. It was… kind of difficult to explain.

“The end of that bandage… is a woman’s hand, right?”

Once the laughter started, he thought it might never stop. He’d said it so uncertainly, as if the answer was anything but obvious. It was… strangely endearing. “…Isn’t it amazing?” He wheezed out finally, still choking on little spats of giggles that bubbled up like hiccups. He turned to examine it, neat and perfect and just as it was when it had first been attached. “I can’t move it, of course. I mean, it’s not my hand after all! But… even now, it still hasn’t rotted…”

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes, blurred his view of the hand, that last surviving piece of her.

Enoshima Junko. 

“Hey, maybe that means it’s becoming one with me!” He said, too loudly and clearing the emotion from his throat with another laugh, this one softer and more self-deprecating than he intended. “Isn’t it amazing? I have successfully become one with Ultimate Despair, my sworn enemy.”

He could remember what it felt like to take her hand when she offered it how warm it had seemed then as she’d wrapped her fingers around his and shook it up and down like she was trying to see if it would come off. It made him laugh and she smiled like that had been the point all along. “It’s nice to meet you, Komaeda Nagito. You’re the lucky student, right?”

“Right,” he murmured, coughing against the back of his hand as he pressed the door to the bathroom open and stepped inside. He wasn’t really surprised when she followed close behind him. She didn’t seem like the sort of person who cared very much about the rules. “I’m very lucky.”

“I’m a model, you know,” she commented, ignoring his lack of interest as if it meant nothing at all. She leaned back against the wall beside the sink as he ducked his head under to rinse the egg from his hair. “Pretty great talent, right?”

“Sure,” he answered, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. He wasn’t sure why modeling would qualify as a talent at all, really. 

“Nagito. Can I call you Nagito? I feel like we’re going to be really close, you and I.”

“I hope so,” his smile had felt so fragile and he’d been certain that at any moment she’d tell him it was all a joke, that he was ridiculous for thinking she’d want anything to do with someone like him. Then he’d laugh because that was what he did when people did that.

Instead, she’d laughed at his words, long and loud, slapping her bare leg like somehow what he’d said had been the funniest thing she’d ever heard. Which seemed weird. Maybe he’d told her a joke and he’d just forgotten, though he was pretty sure that wasn’t the case. “You… you’re funny,” she commented, smiling manically. “I like you a lot, Komaeda Nagito. I think we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”

“I see, so you salvaged the body…” He commented, breaking through his wandering thoughts. His gaze was cold again, the energy and life of moments before slipping away like a dream. “You really are a boring person.”

Huh.

That hurt more than he’d expected it to.

Or maybe just exactly as much as he’d expected it to, either way, it hurt a bit.

Still, he wanted to explain, it seemed important that he should understand even as he was turning his gaze away. “Ah, I don’t want you to misunderstand. I just see her as my enemy, you know. Because she’s my sworn enemy… because I hate her so much… that’s why I took her power. And for that I…”

A memory drifted to the surface, splattering across his thoughts as his eyes caught again on the bright world beyond their little window at the green of the island slipping into view.

“… never had sex, can you believe it?”

Sometimes she talked and talked and he couldn’t focus well enough on her words to catch even half of what she said. Not that it mattered. She often talked about nothing at all. Or nothing he cared about. Either or it mattered about the same to him. She’d always delighted in sharing the secrets of others with him, because she knew he didn’t care, wouldn’t remember even half of them. “I’ve never had sex either, you know.” He commented, because she’d paused like she was waiting for a reaction and she’d just bother him until she got one if he didn’t say something.

“Yeah, you have. What’s the point of getting nailed by a counselor if you’re not even going to bother remembering it?”

“Oh, that… I guess,” he murmured, frowning at the vague memory of a sloppy encounter with a person he couldn’t quite picture. He remembered it mostly as being sticky and uncomfortable, pain in strange places and an admonishment for silence before he’d limped back to his room.

Had he told her about that?

Had that been real at all?

He wasn’t really sure.

“Besides,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken or it hadn’t mattered that he had. “You jerk off at least. She feels all guilty and stuff when she does it. I told you, I barely even have to do  _anything_. It’s like they picked the most dysfunctional talented people they could find for this class. Don’t you think so?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Funny,” she grinned. “Since you’re the craziest of the bunch.”

“I don’t like that word.”

“Whatever,” she replied quickly, changing the subject. “So, anyway, I think she’s got a crash on that guy with the hamsters. And she-“

He glanced up at her, squinting against the glare of the sun. He could see up her skirt. Her panties had like red cherries on them. He wondered vaguely if he should tell her he could. Was that the polite thing to do or was the polite thing not to mention it? He wasn’t sure.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Hm?” He blinked refocusing on the blur of her face.

“I said: do you like hamsters? You weren’t listening at all were you?”

“Not really.”

She stomped her foot next to his head, the sharp point of her heel grazing his temple. It was painful in a distant way, stinging a bit as the wet of blood leaked sluggish into his ear. He rubbed at it irritably, shoving her foot away hard enough that she stumbled and had to catch herself against the rail. “God, what is wrong with you?” She grouched, tossing a handkerchief at him presumably to blot up the blood. “You’re so  _boring_  when you’re like this. Can’t you just play along at least? I’m trying to tell you important stuff, you know.”

“Hamsters and Sonia Nevermind’s masturbatory habits are important stuff?”

“Okay, first off, it totally is, because I mean I had to draw her a diagram of a vagina. She didn’t even know what a clitoris was much less where it was and what she could do with it. I mean, seriously, that’s just criminally uninformed.”

“I don’t know where her clitoris is and what she can do with it either so it doesn’t seem so crazy to me,” he answered, staring up listlessly at the clouds drifting by overhead.

“I’m surprised you even know what a clitoris is.”

“I don’t. I just wanted you to shut up about it.”

“You’re such a dick. But,  _anyway_ , no,  _stupid_ , I didn’t mean any of  _that_. I meant the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“Oh my god, you’re completely  _useless_  to me like this. I’d take one of your weird little hope conquers all monologues over this any day.”

“They’re not weird. Hope is what gets me through the day.”

“Not if I bash your stupid head in with a brick it isn’t.”

“Would bashing my head in bring you greater despair?” He asked curiously, tilting his head back to look up at her.

She sighed, flicking her pigtail back over her shoulder carelessly, “Probably not. No one likes you but me and when you’re like this  _you_  wouldn’t even care if I killed you, would you?”

“Hm, probably not. Though my death would probably bring everyone hope for a better tomorrow since they wouldn’t deal with me anymore. That might be worth dying for. Go ahead. Bash away.”

“Meh, you being up for it makes it  _massively_ less appealing. Maybe tomorrow,  _if_  you’re being less of an apathetic little bitch,” she leaned down and pressed her lips against his forehead. “Don’t sleep up here. You’ll catch a chill and I’ll have to find someone else to do my homework for me.”

She grinned widely as she drew back. There’d be a big red lipstick mark there now.

“You say that like I bothered to do it in the first place,” he answered irritably, rubbing at it even though he knew it wouldn’t come off completely until he washed it away with a cleanser.

He hated that… which was probably why she always did it.

“Lame, Komaeda. You really bum me out when you’re like this.”

“Don’t care. I hope you trip over your platforms and fall down the stairs and break your neck. That’d probably be best for everyone.”

“You say that like it’d really solve anything. Despair isn’t so easily defeated, you know. Catch you later, Lame-maeda!”

“Wait, huh?” He murmured, rubbing his face with his good hand, drifting back to the present. “Do I… hate her? Huh… that’s strange… Huh?”

It hurt to think about it.

She’d been…

She’d been…

“Ah, Nagito, poor baby, all alone again?”

He glanced up, startled, he hadn’t heard her approach at all. Or maybe he had and just forgotten all about it.

Either way, she was suddenly just there, inches away, seated on the edge of the roof, smiling that wide smile at him. He hesitated, feeling caught, exposed.

He didn’t really like it when people watched him eat, saw his sloppily packed lunch. He’d gotten a rice cooker for his room because sometimes that was all he could keep down and sometimes just the smell of other food was enough to make him sick.

Sometimes it felt like everything made him sick these days.

It seemed like dying should be easier. It wasn’t like he was fighting it, not really. If he were lucky, shouldn’t his body be giving him a break on the backend? No, maybe not. Maybe it was more hopeful this way. This way he could think ‘tomorrow will be better’ and even if it wasn’t, at least it wasn’t any worse so he could always pretend that the next day would be better instead and that would be the more hopeful thing and…

“Ko-mae-da Na-gi-to. You’re doing that thing again. You  _know_  I hate that thing, right? So, knock it off, it’s annoying.”

He did.

He knew that.

She’d said it before. Many times. How she hated his silences. She was the only one who liked to hear him complain, enjoyed hearing his vicious unrestrained self. He shrugged, the barest lift of his shoulders and it still felt like too much of a bother, “I hope you fall off the roof. It’d be better for everyone if you did,” he offered, the words slipping free before he even realized they were there, waiting to be said.

He thought briefly of apologizing, but since that was pretty much how he felt he let the thought pass without further remark.

“ _Right?_  That’s more like it,” she grinned like she’d won some victory, kicking her feet, heels banging against the wall.

He still didn’t understand why she was allowed to wear those boots. “But it’s not like I’d take all the despair with me if I did, you know. I might help it along, but it’s not like I  _caused_  it.”

“Didn’t you?” He asks, disinterested, picking the rice apart with his chopsticks, smearing it against the side of the box.

“Pupupu, oh, okay, you caught me,” she shrugged, heels still banging hard against the brick. It was making his headache worse. “I caused plenty, but, honestly, it’s not like it was  _hard_.”

“Hm, no, I guess not, you’ve said that before, I think. Do you just like repeating yourself?” He commented, collapsing back to lie flat on the concrete. The sun was bright overhead and even though there was a chill to the air, he could almost feel his skin burning beneath the force of that bright, bright sun. The cold of the roof felt good, but he was sure it would be unpleasant before long. “You need a challenge.”

“Did I sound bored?”

“You’re talking to me, aren’t you? Doesn’t that mean you don’t have anything better to do? There are tons more interesting people than me to talk to who have more interesting things to say.”

“You’d think so,  _right_? Whole school of special people and they’re all just so  _boring_. It’s just so  _depressing_ , isn’t it? I mean, really, there’s no greater despair than that is there? That awful feeling that you’re alone even when you’re surrounded by people? That’s why it’s so easy, you know? No one cares about anyone else here. Doesn’t it just bum you out? I mean, there’s no sport in it at all. It’s exhausting how easy it is to pick them off, pick them apart. This should be harder, shouldn’t it? Isn’t it weird? Weird that it should be so easy to bring such despair to a place that’s supposed to be all about hope? Don’t you think so, Nagito?” Junko clicked her tongue, falling back against the concrete herself.

Her hair brushed his cheek as she sprawled beside him. The smell of her shampoo made him gag, as he shoved the offending mass away weakly.

She laughed, bright and loud at the sound, “You’re such a pussy! Everything makes you sick these days, doesn’t it?”

He found himself laughing as well even though it wasn’t really funny.

He’d almost always laughed at her jokes.

Even though they were almost never actually funny.

That’s right, she was… something else, wasn’t she?

His sworn enemy… and the only friend he’d ever had.

She hadn’t been a very good friend, but she’d been his.

It was pathetic, really. It always had been.

Maybe no one was ever any one thing to anybody.

He was staring at him again.

He didn’t mean to, at his strange eyes and his dark, dark hair. But at least his companion didn’t seem particularly bothered by it.

That was something at least.

He grasped for a distraction and found one once again in the island slipping into view outside their tiny window. “Ah, look out the window. We’re finally here! You’re starting to see it too, right? That’s Jabberwock Island, isn’t it? Isn’t it exciting? I wonder what’s going to happen on that island once we get there…”

A gentle scoff, “…What’s going to happen? I can already predict what will happen.”

He glanced back at him, surprised, “…Huh?”

He’d brought up his knees at some point and as Nagito watched, he folded his arms across the top of them as he glowered at the window… or maybe the island beyond, it was hard to say for sure. “I already know because I am loved by talent. But… no matter what happens, it’s of no concern to me. I will not be able to participate in what lies ahead.”

It didn’t seem to please him.

“Hm? Really…? I don’t understand, but… I guess we have to part ways for a while. That’s disappointing… we seemed to get along pretty well.” He trailed off, glancing down at where his mismatched hands had fallen into his lap at some point. “…Hey, can I see you again?” He asked softly, hope a fragile bird waiting to be crushed by that blood-red gaze.

“There is no reason we’ll ever meet again,” was the answer he received almost immediately, but his voice seemed… softer than it had been, a ghost of something like regret and then it was gone as if it had never been there at all. “After all… you are boring… Your talent, your thoughts, your entire existence is boring to me…”

He stayed silent for a long moment, a smile flickering to life and dying on his lips as that fragile hope evaporated leaving not the faintest trace behind. “…You really don’t play along, do you?”

For a long time there was only silence.

It wasn’t until the boat was docking that he spoke again, so quietly that for a moment Nagito thought he might have been mistaken. “Did you say something?”

“Kamukura,” he replied, louder his gaze flat and steady.

“What?”

“My name… you introduced yourself. Earlier. I didn’t do the same. Kamukura Izuru.”

“Kamukura Izuru,” the name tasted… strange, almost unreal on his tongue. “I’ve heard that name before.”

“I suppose you would have,” he replied, standing up, brushing dust, real or imagined, from his crisp black suit.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re going to do?”

“No.”

He sighed, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be too disappointed, “I suppose that’s just as well. I kind of like surprises.”

**+++**

Something hit the door with a heavy, thunk and he jolted back to awareness. Back to another tiny room far from the remembered reality of that boat, of that man, of that person who both was and wasn’t Hinata Hajime.

His head was throbbing and she was still talking, whispering outside the door, but he couldn’t make out the words. Didn’t want to anyway. He inched away, finally, finally finding the strength to crawl away from the door. To leave it further and further behind until he was far enough away that he could lie down against the cold, cold tiles and not have to hear her anymore.

It didn’t matter.

None of that mattered.

He wasn’t that person anymore.

He wasn’t hers, not anymore. Not her friend, not her enemy, not her anything. There was no  _her_  anymore. No more ultimate despair. There was just… them. The remnants, the last reminders and even that… was just embers now.

Even if he remembered everything, remembered all of it, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be that person again. Not now. Now he was his own or maybe Hinata’s a little bit, but nothing mattered because if Hinata was Hinata than he couldn’t be himself… so what did it matter what he was or wasn’t or what he did or didn’t.

He caught fingers against his face to smother a moan. It felt like a sickness, the uneasy feeling in his stomach that spread through him like a virus, tendrils sliding through his veins. It wasn’t hope or despair, it was just… resignation.

He closed his eyes and if he concentrated he could hear Hinata’s voice again as if their conversation never stopped, as if it’s been seconds instead of the minutes or hours it seemed had passed.

“Dammit, I should be there with you, but I’m not. I’m  _not_. Komaeda, I….” Hinata’s voice was quiet and close, so soft, almost as if he were talking to himself.

Why did Hinata even  _care_  where he was?

He was trash, just ragged cheap plastic, spilt and ruptured, spewing its filthy contents along the side of the road.

Unwanted.

Left to  _rot_.

Spoiling in the sun.

He was… he was… just… he was just…

He couldn't answer. Couldn't find the words.

And then Hinata was speaking again, hurried and soft and he didn't understand _why_.

“No, I’m… I think I’m in the hall, maybe? I don’t know. I don’t know if things are laid out the same here. I just… I don’t  _know_. I don’t  _know_.” 

He sounded so  _sad,_ so _frantic_.

He… Hinata was… so…

He scrubbed his good hand over his face, rubbing at the damp there.

It was stupid, really.

They didn’t really know anything about each other. They were practically strangers and he knew that, he  _knew_ , but he still… he still wanted to  _touch_  him, to lean close to him and press their foreheads together, lean into his strength, offer what little he had in exchange.

It was… really stupid.

He couldn’t even imagine Hinata wanting that. Not from him, not from worthless trash like him. Not really, not if he knew it was really him instead of some… dream just there to make him feel better about himself.

Maybe this would be the only way anyone would ever want him for anything.

And even this… was probably more than he deserved.

He was probably really lucky.

Lucky… sure.

Was the Hinata he knew even the real Hinata?

Or was he really Kamukura Izuru?

Did it even matter?

Whether his talent was manufactured or completely lacking, he was still… nothing special. He was still  _nothing_ , less than nothing even.

And he hadn’t come to the island for him.

Hadn’t known him at all before that day in the boat.

So, why had he come?

Did it even matter?

He’d wanted to see her and now he wanted to see him.

Maybe he’d wanted to see someone else entirely when he’d agreed to get on the stupid boat.

Did it matter?

_“You’re special to me.”_

Those stupid words just kept skipping around in his head and they just wouldn’t leave him alone and he still didn’t understand them.

He still didn’t understand them at all, but they stuck with him like gum on the bottom of his shoe. He wanted to scream in his face. Tell him to stop. To stop  _pretending_ , to stop acting like it mattered, like  _he_  mattered. Like either of them mattered. He… he didn’t understand. If this was Hinata, the real Hinata, how could he _say_  things like that with a straight face? How could he touch him like that? He didn’t even  _like_  him. He never  _had_. Not once he’d known him, once he’d seen who he really was...

And he’d felt lucky. Lucky because at least he was still looking at him at least he was still  _special_  to him, still mattered to him in that way if in no other.

_Special._

That freaking word again.

Hinata had always treated him like he was a nuisance, an annoyance, just… just a danger at best and a pest at worst.

And he hadn’t been  _wrong_ , had he?

That was what he  _was_.

He was lucky and his luck gave him everything he needed and nothing he actually wanted. He’d wanted to give them hope. He’d wanted Hinata to like him. He’d wanted his friend back. He’d wanted to die in a way that would do some good, in a way that would inspire hope or at least stop the spread of despair. He’d wanted his luck to  _save_  someone for once.

He wanted to be left alone. He wanted to be with him. He wanted to be safe and loved and cared for.

He’d wanted and wanted and wanted and it never came to anything.

It never really mattered at all.

Nothing did.

He was lucky and all his good fortune tasted like ash in his mouth.

He wasn’t worth saving, wasn’t worth  _anything_.

He never had been.

But Hinata… Hinata didn’t seem to know that at all

And it was beautiful.

And it was terrible.

And he was  _awful_  for not wanting it to end.

Laughter again, sudden and inescapable and strangely cathartic, as he sat back on his heels, shaking his head as he stared down at his bare legs, at the boring tiles beneath.

What a hopeless situation.

To want so much from someone that even their hate was still preferable to nothing.

Had it always been like this?

Had he simply been a lost cause from the moment Hinata blinked his eyes open on that beach and winced up at him?

Or had it been from the moment he’d seen that not-quite smile tighten his lips on the ship when they’d both been someone else entirely?

Did it even matter where it began when he already knew where it would end?

“I’d have thought you’d be glad to be rid of someone like me. I only ever cause you trouble,” he replied at last, his voice flat as a hundred conflicting emotions tried to beg and claw and scrape their way free in his chest.

“Don’t be stupid,” he snapped, voice thick with some emotion Nagito found himself afraid to name.

They really were hopeless, weren’t they?

“Hey Hinata, I’m really glad I got to see you.” He murmured finally, because he was. Even if he was dead, even if he was a dream, even if he never got out of this hospital, even if the world faded to black, even if Hinata woke up and went on with his life and never dreamed about him again… he would still be glad.

It hadn’t always been pleasant, but it had been worth it.

To pretend for a little while.

“Then you shouldn’t have taken off like that,” Hinata admonished and he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips at his belligerent tone.

“I didn’t care for the ambiance,” he replied still smiling, fingers of his good hand tracing lazy patterns across the tile. “I liked the way you tasted though. Is it always that sour? Is everyone’s like that?”

“How the heck would I know?” He grumbled and Nagito’s smile only widened at the sound. “The only dick I’ve ever had in my mouth was yours.” 

Maybe it shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it was.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Shit, I don't know. Probably. At least I think so. I still don’t really remember everything, you know. Look, can you… I don’t know, go look out in the hall or something, open the door? Maybe I’ll be able to see you?” 

“That’s probably not a good idea,” he murmured, a little annoyed that he’d forgotten his own situation even if it had only been for a few minutes. She was still out there, after all, still stomping up and down the hall, still complaining loudly to someone.

He didn’t want to think about who that someone might be.

“I can hear her stumping around out there. I think she forgot the doors have locks so she seems a little mad about it. Can’t you hear her? She's really loud.”

“Her? Who her? You mean Enoshima?”

He laughed, loud and uncomfortable, “Huh? What? No, not… who’s Enoshima?”

It was stupid, but he didn’t… he didn’t want to tell him like this… or at all really. He didn’t want to spoil the moment. The idea of Hinata knowing for sure that he was real after all they’d done made him feel sick.

That he also remembered all those other things….

No.

Better to let the lie stand.

“Come  _on_ , Komaeda. Okay, can you at least tell me what wall I’m at so I can try and get around to the other side?”

Other side?

He glanced around, confused, before clamoring unsteadily to his feet.

That… was a good point, wasn’t it?

Hinata hadn’t been in the hall, hadn’t been downstairs either, but… he could hear him so… they had to be connected somehow, right?

Maybe.

Where was his voice coming from anyway? It had seemed to be coming from right beside him before, when he’d been near the door, but maybe… maybe the acoustics were just weird or… something. He edged around the precarious piles, looking for… there was a vent low on the same wall as the door. He fell down too hard on his knees, catching himself on his good arm as he leaned forward to study it.

It was plain, cheap metal… barely even worth being called a vent, really. It was weirdly simplistic. There weren’t even any screws. It was just a piece of shiny, grated metal slapped on the wall with nothing obvious holding it there. It looked completely decorative even though there was a long dark hole behind it.

It was really kind of suspicious, actually.

“Wall? How would I know?” He asked as he slid the fingernails of his good hand beneath the edge of the vent, grunting as it popped free and clattered to the floor the moment he applied pressure.

Huh.

He poked at the fallen vent, frowning.

He’d really expected that to be a lot more difficult. These things were usually a lot more difficult than that, weren’t they?

Maybe he was just lucky.

He heard a sharp intake of breath and what sounded like an aborted scream and he glanced back at the grate, surprised. “Hinata?”

Another aborted scream and he found himself reaching for the opening with his good arm, misbalancing and falling flat against the floor as he shoved his arm uselessly into the opening. Pain flared down his forearm, sharp and sudden as his arm scrapped across some unseen something and he jerked it back out of the hole, spilling blood across the floor, choking on a scream.

There was blood everywhere as he scrambled back away from the hole, bleeding arm pressed against his chest, skin sticking and scrapping against the floor as he used his feet to push himself back, away from the wall. His heart was thundering in his head, but he could hear Hinata crying out, somewhere, the sound seemed like it was everywhere, but it was distant, vague, pained. He called for him, once, twice, a dozen times, but there was never an answer.

Only the memory of that one aborted scream echoing around him, within him over and over, throbbing in time with the pain in his arm.

Blood slipped down his skin, soaked the front of his shirt, dripping from his elbow to land against his legs, puddle on the floor.

Eventually the pain faded to a dull throb and the flow of blood became slow, sluggish, stopped dripping altogether. He pulled his arm away from his chest gingerly to stare at the rivets carved straight down his arm, five perfectly straight marks like….

“Junko?” He mouthed the word, unable to bring himself to give it voice.

There was no answer, nothing but the storm outside and the uneven thump of footsteps in the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos and comments are always very much appreciated. Thanks for reading. :)
> 
> So, I'm now updating more or less weekly. Fear my reasonably efficient editing schedule. So, yeah, the chapters are going to be coming fast for a while as I race to get this as done and posted as possible by the time D3 starts airing in July as that is going to be *incredibly* distracting. We'll see how it goes. ^_^
> 
>  **Timeline:** I swear, I'm not doing this bounce back and forth thing just to be a dick, it just seemed weird to break out of Mikan's POV in the middle and then break back in again when they were both having flashback/memory issues. Just sort of pointlessly confusing. This just flows better. (Which I suppose is really just another way of saying 'I do what I want, sorry'.)
> 
>  **The boat scene:** Is the boat scene written from Komaeda's pov with some additions at the end, in case you were wondering and didn't want to go check. Transcription is a bitch. If anyone knows if there is an actual script of the game as an online resource somewhere, please hit me up on tumblr and let me know. Going back through my save games to review scenes is time-consuming (but still easier than trying to review via Let's Play videos).
> 
>  **What class is Junko in anyway?:** I'll get to explaining this in more detail at some point. 
> 
> **Scene Breaks (+++):** For the curious, there is indeed a reason why they're there sometimes and other times not at all.
> 
> Also, I'm on Tumblr (http://midnight-run-amok.tumblr.com/) so if you're into that shit, feel free to stop on by.


	12. You Are What You Eat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which truth hurts all the way down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, be sure to re-check those content warnings if you don't like unpleasant surprises.

_“It's like in the Bible. You can't always get what you want, but if you really need something, you usually find it."_  
_"What part of the Bible is that from?" Ig asked her. "The Gospel of Keith Richards?”_  
― Joe Hill, Horns

  
+++  
**DAY THREE**  
-continued-

  
A burst of static summoned him away from the edge of hysteria, forcing him back into the present as it crackled loudly, the slur of an automated voice cutting through, it’s message unintelligible: _"...rn...tion...rder...vel...tor...teen...antine imminent.”_

She was knocking again, calling out to him, a sweet, coaxing voice as if he were a cat stuck in a tree instead of a boy stuck in a trap.

“M-Mister Komaeda,” she called. “You should really come out now. It’s time to take your medicine.”

Was that what this was? Was that all it had been? Was this just a fever dream, just a delusion? Was he still in the hospital? Which hospital? Was he still at Hope's Peak? Had there even been a Hope's Peak? 

His head ached. His arm ached where _something_ had scratched him. It hadn’t been her, of course, it couldn’t have been her, not really.

Enoshima Junko was dead.

He had no doubts about that.

But then… he was dead too or he was supposed to be and this was…. 

This was all wrong.

He remembered that… remembered sitting in that diner watching the final trial on television. Watching her press the button to begin her own execution. Remembered being…

Sad?

Relieved?

He wasn’t sure.

He thinks maybe he felt nothing at all. That there had been nothing but a vague sort of surprise that she’d gone through with it, that she’d been willing to let it end there.

“But then again…” he reflected as he built little houses with the sugar packets and watched the survivors of her game prepare to reenter the world on the little television they'd brought in and mounted above the jukebox. “I suppose she was as much a victim of her desires as any of us. In the end, she was impulsive and rash and unworthy of the role of leader, but I suppose the title of Ultimate Despair fit her well enough.”

It had been a courageous decision and no less so for how little they really understood about the devastation they’d be walking into, about all the ways the world had changed and all the ways that nothing had truly changed at all.

He couldn't help watching him most of all.

The one they were calling Ultimate Hope.

The one who was lucky.

Lucky, but not lucky like he was lucky, not really. 

He wondered if they'd make it in this new world.

He hoped they would.

“Think so?” A voice called from the kitchen, the sound of meat sizzling was loud in the otherwise quiet diner. “I’m gonna miss her sensitive palate, that’s for sure. She was the only one who really _appreciated_ my cooking. You sure you don’t want some of this? It’s mighty tasty if I do say so myself.”

“Hm, no, not hungry,” he replied, pillowing his head against folded arms. “Think I’ll take a nap.” 

“Well, that’s just a fine howdy do! Who’s gonna watch the customers if you’re busy napping?”

Nagito yawned widely, knocking down the sugar packet towers with a careless wave of his hand, “I don’t think they’re going anywhere.”

“Oh, well, crap down my back and call it a chocolate slide, I thought it was a bit too quiet out there,” Hanamura grumbled, sticking his head through the little window from the kitchen. “Tarnation, Komaeda, what good are you? They’re all dead, you ham-fisted, lazy son of a shallot. Did you kill my customers?”

He shrugged, slouching lower in his seat, gaze still mostly focused on the shots of empty rooms flickering past on the little television screen, “Hm? No? I’m certain they died of natural causes or maybe the Monokumas killed them, I wasn’t really paying attention. One of the two, probably, maybe, but if you act now I’m sure you can at least use them as ingredients, right? So there's still some hope.”

“Bah, c’mon, be serious, you know I only use the freshest ingredients in my cooking. Besides it ain’t a good habit to get into, eating the customers. This restaurant’s gonna go belly up if it gets that sort of reputation,” he sighed dramatically, ducking back into the kitchen.

Once they were gone and the feed showed nothing but an endless series of deserted rooms, he snagged the remote and flicked through the few available channels before finally settling on a news report about the devastation in Western Europe, about the efforts of the Future Foundations to establish some sort of utopian refuge where those with hope in their hearts, those who had not yet surrendered to despair could gather and be safe from harm. 

He sat back with a sigh and grabbed the fallen sugar packets to begin building his tower anew.

Pictures of crowds hundreds deep at the ports, clinging to the hull of a Future Foundation ship, sliding away to splash into the waters below splashed across the screen before it switched to pictures of Hope’s Peak, blurred out stills of the executions, gritty determined looks of the survivors who refused to fall to despair.

“Are you making _any_ efforts to recover the Hope Six?” A reporter inquired, her tone exasperated as the picture moved to a split screen showing the reporter and a remote feed of an old man wearing a brown coat and a weary expression.

“Of course,” the old man – Tengen Kazou, Head of the Future Foundation according to the caption - on the screen declared in a deep voice brimming with certainty. “Of course we are, every effort. Those poor children are a symbol of the goodness still left in the world and our ability to preserve and overcome in the face of great hardship. We will spare no expense in our attempts to breach Japan and rescue those extraordinary youngsters, but, as you’re well aware, the area-“

He looked vaguely familiar though it was probably in that way that all old men and babies looked familiar to him.

They all had the same wrinkles, the same squishy faces, and the same gross, weird hair: completely interchangeable.

Though he probably didn’t actually have any right to call anyone else’s hair weird or gross.

His phone rang, a cheery tune that seemed shrill and jarring in the relative quiet diner, he glanced listlessly at the display, unperturbed by the unfamiliar number. He’d never actually bothered putting any numbers into his phone but hers.

She was the only one who’d ever called him after all.

“Hm… hello?” He’d asked, clearing his throat as he answered. 

“M-Mister Komaeda? D-Did you see it? Did you?”

He recognized her voice, could even picture her face, the way she’d clung to Junko’s shoulders sometimes, sobbing adoration against her shoulder.

The way Junko had grinned.

Funny that he could remember all that, but her name escaped him.

He hummed what he hoped sounded like an affirmative as he added another level to the latest sugar packet tower.

“-for the Hope Six. Pray for their continued safety and that we at the Future Foundation will be able to rescue them and bring them-” the man on the television continued, though he was only half-listening.

“Then you’ll come, won’t you? I-I c-called the others and t-they’re coming. We’re all going to meet at Hope’s Peak.”

“-strict immigration policies are allowing hundreds to die each and every day as the forces of-”

“I-I need… we need to save part of her, don’t you think? Anything we can?” 

“-processing applicants as quickly as we can, but this all takes time. After all, it would do no one any good if we were to rush-“

“She deserves to live on through us, don’t you think? So we have to do what we can, don’t we? To keep her with us? 

“-limited space at the moment so we must also consider first and foremost those who are necessary to build a world free of despair, a world in which we can all thrive rather than simply-“

Her voice was thick with unshed tears, “I-I just m-miss her so much already! I… I loved her so much. Do you think she’ll ever forgive us for not being there? She loved us, but we weren’t able to be part of her game. Were we useful to her at all in the end? I love her, I just… I love her so much.”

He set the phone down on the table, nudging it to the edge and leaving it there as she continued, a relentless stream of inane babble.

She _loved_ her.

Did she?

Was that what love was?

Maybe.

He didn’t really understand about love.

He heard about it an awful lot, but it was like hearing about Bulgaria. It was something he knew in a distant, disinterested way existed, but since he’d never experienced it for himself it meant very little.

He understood that people longed for it, stole for it, killed for it. That they often seemed to give it away as freely as candy at the holidays as if they had an endless supply squirreled away in closets or under beds. That they proved it with rings and bows and kisses and words spoken with so much more weight than they had in the end. That sometimes people confused it with sex and sometimes people thought that it was mandatory. He understood it was something special that a lot of people laid claim to, that it could be hoarded or thrown away or doled out like breadcrumbs to pigeons.

He couldn’t remember ever feeling it. 

Probably wouldn’t have known it even if he had.

“Mister Komaeda? Are you still there? Mister Komaeda?” 

He released a heavy sigh and picked up the phone once more. “Of course.”

“O-oh good, um, so you’ll meet us at the school?”

“I suppose so.”

“T-T-Thank you for l-listening, e-e-everybody else hung up.”

“Oh? Did they?” It hadn’t even occurred to him when it had been just as easy to set her aside until she was done. “Huh. Sure. See you there.”

“Y-yes! I’ll see you there,” she replied, sounding cheerful.

He pressed the end button and set the phone aside once more.

“-this world shall never be lost to despair while the most talented members of the Future Foundation exist to protect it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be going,” the man on television commented as he excused himself from the interview. 

It made him laugh, a harsh bark of sound in the quiet of the diner.

“Thank you, Mister Tengan, for taking the time to speak with us today.” The screen switched over to shaky camera footage of a people running through dirty streets overrun with Monokuma bears. A tank could be glimpsed in the distance before the whole world seemed to explode in fire and smoke. “This was the scene today in Novoselic….” 

He pressed the button to turn off the television.

“See that?” He had asked the quiet of the restaurant, the dead patrons and smashed bears that littered the floors. “They’re going to save the world… or at least the really talented parts of it. How hopeful. She’s dead and nothing has really changed at all.”

He scooted out of the booth, smiling at the protest of the cheap, red vinyl seat cover.

“Ya know I can’t actually hear you when you mumble like that, right?” Hanamura called from the kitchen as he pushed through the door and out into the dull, overcast afternoon beyond.

The tinkling bells that hung from the handle clanking and singing in his wake. 

**+++**

**"vac **...** vel **...five **...**** ctor **...t **...**** arant **...** ent"**

**+++**

He awoke slowly, wrapped in uncomfortable warmth, damp with sweat.

“What?” He croaked, his voice hoarse and breathless blinking aching eyes open to darkness. “Where…?”

The scrap of a key turning in a lock and the creak of the door opening, “Ready or not, Mister Komaeda, here I come."

She laughed and there was a loud bang that made him jump, would have probably choked a scream from his throat if he’d had the breath to give it life. He had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there. The last thing he remembered, he’d… he’d been… what had he been doing? 

On the floor?

There’d been a grate and Hinata and his arm hurt and…

Everything was jumbled, mixed up and blurring together. 

He remembered sitting in a diner, the diner, remembered the grit of sugar beneath his fingernails when he’d ruptured one of the packets he’d been playing with, sweeping the offending sugar off the table onto the floor. Remembered the twang of Hanamura’s voice calling out to him, the smell of charred flesh, but he couldn’t… couldn’t remember what he’d been doing before he’d remembered that. All he knew was he didn’t want to be found. All he could feel was the panic running riot beneath his skin. He couldn’t move. No. He needed to stay still even as his hand trembled and he pressed it against his mouth to silence the hint of a whimper. He had no idea where he was, how he got there, but he could hear the slow plod of hesitant footsteps squeaking across slick tile. There was… there was something soft and damp covering him and he was surrounded by itchy fluff that scratched uncomfortably against his bare skin.

There was a soft thump, too close, too loud and his muscles tensed and ached a creak as the world around him shifted and the footsteps moved away.

Then she was howling, hurt and rage and he winced at the cacophony of destruction that followed, a series of bangs and fluttering papers and crashing equipment, closed his eyes and curled tighter around his knees.

He….

He was….

**+++**

**"wa...atio...ord **...** vel **...** tor **...** anti **...** ent"**

**+++**

He whimpers as fingers wind painfully tight in his hair, shoving his face down towards the shattered wood, metal and glass. “Do you have any idea how expensive that was? How difficult it was to procure? DO YOU?”

He knew.

But….

But he’d liked the old one. He’d been allowed to touch the old one, listen to the old one and he thought… maybe… maybe if this one was gone….

It had felt so good to nudge it off the shelf, send it to shatter across the wooden floor of his father’s office. He had little splinters of wood and bits of glass embedded in his ankles, in his feet. It had hurt, it still hurt, and he’d smeared blood on the floor, but it… it had still made him smile, laugh, because he’d done it.

He’d really done it.

“I didn’t mean to,” he lied.

“I don’t understand,” she murmured, her voice summoning him from the past back into the terror of the present. “Why would he do this?”

Who was she talking to?

Hinata?

Junko?

No one at all? 

He strained to hear, but he could barely even hear her past the raging thundering beat of his own heart.

Was it really his heart? 

Or was he just imagining that too?

Could your heart beat when you were dead?

“You’ve always been stubborn,” she murmured.

Was she speaking to him? To some mysterious other? Did she know he was here? She must, right? Where else would he be? Where else could he be?

Was this the same room? Had he moved somewhere else completely and he just had no memory of it? Had he gotten that bad?

He’d been… bad before, hadn’t he?

For a while… things had been… bad, hadn’t they?

Obviously something had happened, but something could be anything, could be nothing much at all, could be _everything_. What was he supposed to do? Why was he hiding? What did he hope to accomplish? She would find him, wouldn’t she? She would find him and she would….

What?

What would she do?

What was he so afraid of?

He hadn’t… had he had a reason to run in the first place? 

There’d been… something, hadn’t there?

Or maybe not.

Maybe there'd been no rhyme, no reason.

Maybe he’d... maybe he’d just reacted.

To her unexpected presence, her unexpected touch.

Why was he so afraid? Why was he _still_ so afraid?

“I can’t help you, Mr. Komaeda. I can’t help you if you won’t let me in.” 

Could she?

She wanted to help him, didn't she? Why couldn't he just let her? His arm hurt and his head hurt and he was hiding in a mattress and he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there and he was tired, so tired, so why... why was he running away?

He was....

**+++**

**"warn **...o** r **...** vel **...** tor **...tsev **...**** rantin **...** nent"**

**+++**

“What’s that?”

“Mm?” His new therapist inquired, glancing up from her file heavy desk. Her heavy-lidded gaze drifting to the machine in the corner of her office. “Oh, well, that’s just a little project of mine.”

“A little project?” He asked, trying to peer through the green of the glass top by pressing his face down against it. The glass was warm to the touch and shadows within were strange and interesting, flowing and undulating like kelp, a gentle sway as if they were reaching out to touch him. He shifted to lay his cheek against the glow, humming along with the soft buzz of whatever powered it.

“Yes, that’s just a prototype. A… proof of concept if you like,” she replied evenly, straightening the files and setting them into her drawer. “Nothing terribly interesting just yet, I’m afraid. It’s just a… I suppose you could call it a passion project.”

“Oh,” he murmured, drawing back enough to lift a finger and draw a smiling face in the fog his warm breath and skin had left behind on the glass surface. Was it cold inside?

Was he just seeing things?

That happened sometimes, didn’t it?

“Why don’t you come sit down and we can get started?”

He hesitated, lingering against the machine, not even bothering to look at the couch she was no doubt indicating.

It was the same couch that had always been in this office.

He hated that couch.

“I don’t want to.”

She sighed, exasperated, her voice muffled by the thick scarf she kept wound around her neck and the lower part of her face even when she was in session. He’d never seen the whole of her face and her voice was so soft and flat, that he could never tell whether she was frowning or smiling. “Come now. How will you ever recover if you’re not willing to do the work, Mr. Komaeda?”

He barked out a laugh, fingers squeaking as he dragged them over the glass surface, his gaze going soft and unfocused against the red and white swirl that patterned the rug beneath his feet. She’d changed a lot of things about this room when she’d taken over from the last person to sit in this office, “Recover, huh?”

Her hair swished around her as she stood, her heels clicking loud against the tiles as she circled around the desk until they were met with the plush of carpet. He was almost surprised when she was suddenly there in front of him, taking his hands in hers. He tried to jerk them back, away, but she held on, grip firm and there was nowhere to go. He had allowed himself to be trapped with his back to the machine.

He shivered.

He didn’t like it when she touched his hands, didn’t really like it when _anyone_ touched his hands. They were filthy, so was he, but his hands… his hands were the worst by far.

He had dirty, terrible things with those hands.

“I may not be able to save your life, of course, but I’m sure I can at least help you make the most of the time you have left. I think the world could greatly benefit from all you have to offer. Please, allow me to help you. I want to hear all about you and your unique talent.”

“I don’t-“ he began, but he wasn’t sure how to finish.

At his back, the machine seemed warm beneath the press of his free hand and when he bumped back against it, it made a strange burbling sound that reminded him of the fish tank the principal kept in his office or the lectures he’d sat through during his first year.

“Mister Komaeda,” he had said, his hands folded across the desk before him. He couldn’t stop staring at them, at the folds of his skin that seemed thin as paper. “I’m not saying this is your fault, but you are a disruptive element and-“

His stomach sank, taking the strength in his legs with it and he dropped to the floor, falling forward into a sloppy, imperfect bow.

He’d never belonged here, he knew that, he wasn’t… his talent was so… limited compared to theirs. He wasn’t extraordinary in any way, but…

But…

But….

“Please don’t make me go,” he’d said, eyes squeezed shut, forehead pressed hard against the carpeted floor of the office, nails digging against the rough fibers. “I’ll try harder, I’ll be better, I… I know I’m not… I know someone as worthless as me doesn’t truly deserve to walk these halls or to stand with all these great and formidable talents, but please let me stay. I… please… I….”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” he whispered the last against his knees, shame swallowing up his ability to be any more pathetic than he already was.

He’d planned to be… eloquent, aloof, but panic had suffocated the arguments in his brain, all the elegant speeches he’d made up in his head to justify his presence, his existence, as he’d sat slumped in the chair outside the office waiting for the principal to invite him in. He’d been ambivalent about the whole thing, but then… then he hadn’t been.

The moment he’d walked into the office and taken the seat offered him, he hadn’t been able to stop trembling, to choke off the flood of nerves. All he could think of was his parents’ house. How cold it had been the last time he’d been there, how empty, how he’d broken all those things and burned that pile of stuff in the backyard and just left the mess for them to clean up.

How could he go back there?

Could he go back there?

It was his, but it had never felt like his. It still didn’t. It probably never would.

They hadn’t even wanted him.

He’d just been… lucky.

And they’d been unlucky and then they’d been stuck with him.

Their ill-timed, unwanted, inconvenient miracle.

He could feel despair creeping inside, carving his chest open with a dull knife.

Could practically hear her laughter echoing through the room.

She’d been right.

They were going to kick him out.

Of _course_ , they were going to kick him out.

He’d never belonged here in the first place, he’d just been lucky and he just kept getting worse and worse and someone had been bound to notice eventually even though he tried to hide it. He was lucky, he’d always been lucky, but that luck had always been a balancing act, good and bad, bad and good, and he’d always been waiting for the other shoe to drop for someone to realize that he wasn’t fit to be there.

He’d always known eventually that they would realize they’d made a mistake.

That _he_ was a mistake.

And they never had.

He’d been lucky.

So, _of course_ someone was going to notice that he was falling apart and he didn’t… maybe he hadn’t really ever fit in, but he’d never really fit in anywhere and at least there… at least here he was… something, someone. At least here people saw him. Noticed him. Cared. Even if it was only in how he was useful to them, even if it was only about his money or his talent. It was still something. Even if they didn’t really like him, even if she didn’t really like him, here he was talented and special, but out there… out there he was just… ordinary.

He was just the trash no one wanted.

Here… here his luck wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t something he imagined, something his doctors said he dreamed up to justify the terrible things that happened to him, the way the universe seemed to go out of its way to remind him that he wasn’t necessary, wasn’t wanted. That he’d just been the fly in someone’s soup since the moment he was born. That he was the unfortunate thing that happened to others. Without Hope’s Peak… it wouldn’t be luck, it would just be… him.

If he didn’t have this… what was he?

Sick.

Alone.

Hopeless.

He wouldn’t even have _her_ , because she didn't care about ordinary people. She didn't care about anyone, but outside of Hope's Peak he wouldn't even be worth bothering with. He wouldn't be able to foil her from outside. He...

He hadn’t heard him move at all, but he'd suddenly been there, crouching beside him and he’d been staring down at his expensive shoes as they shuffled into view.

A large hand settled against his hair as he began to raise his head, keeping him bent low. “You are talented, Komaeda Nagito. You deserve to be here, just like anyone else in our program, but… you need to take better care of yourself. I’ve read your file and I’d really like you to take advantage of this institution and all it has to offer. We’re not here merely to educate, to groom those with talent to take their rightful place at the pinnacle of society after all. We’re also here to see that you receive all the benefits of those talents. Those with talent are meant to help others with talent flourish and grow. The most talented people in the world gather around Hope’s Peak both as students and alumni and so we have many people available that may be able to help you in a variety of different ways. For instance, the Ultimate Neurologist is one of your upperclassmen and has agreed to speak with at my request and examine you if you’re willing. Additionally, the Ultimate Therapist will be happy to begin seeing you next term when she wraps up her current assignments and returns to seeing patients on a full-time basis. You should, of course, continue to see your own physicians as well, but I want you to know that we at Hope’s Peak will continue to support you and you shall always have a place here. Yours is a singular talent and I have every faith that you will contribute a great deal to society now and in the future.”

He’d heard all the words, but all that he could really focus on was one single thought:

_They’re going to let me stay._

Fingers snapped in front of his face, drawing his focus back to the present, “Mr. Komaeda?”

He blinked, faintly surprised to find himself floors and months away from the principal’s office. “Sorry,” he murmured, vaguely aware that it didn’t sound sincere in the least. "What was I...?"

"You were telling me about a boy," she replied patiently, voice muffled as she led him towards the long couch that fought the pod thing for domination of the room.

"I was?" He replied, tentatively. "I don't..."

"His name was Hinata Hajime."

"Hinata?" The name didn't sound familiar at all, the syllables unmistakably foreign on his tongue. "I don't-"

But she was already rushing ahead, her grip on his hand tightening again, "He was a student in the reserve course."

Reserve course….

Reserve course….

Right. _Those_ people, he… he… didn’t….

There had been… hadn’t he…? Something… there was… _something_. Something like an inch he couldn’t scratch, the taste of blood on his tongue and fingers in his hair and then the feeling is swept away, spinning out of reach.

“I have a headache,” he murmured, glancing away from her fervent gaze to study the pod again. “Who are you again?”

“Disappointing," she sighed, releasing his hand. "But no matter. Why don’t you have a seat and we’ll get started?”

“Started,” he echoed, relieved, his hand felt sweaty and unpleasant and he wiped it against his leg as he turned away and wandered back to the pod. “I should probably go. My parents don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Mr. Komaeda,” she commented, off-hand with the air of someone who had done this dance often enough to know the steps by heart. “There’s no one waiting for you. You know that.”

“I do,” he answered flippantly, smiling to himself. “But I also don't like it when people try to take advantage of me. So, why are you asking me about some reserve course loser? Who is he?”

He heard her footsteps stall out as they crashed against the tiles, a stumble caused by surprise or panic, maybe, he wasn’t sure, didn’t care. That was what she got for assuming he was worse than he was, for trying to pull information from him on the sly.

“He’s…. he left the program a few months ago, went home,” she replied hesitantly, an obvious lie.

Not that he really cared.

But there was… there was something… something about the reserve course that he couldn’t quite remember. Something… interesting... _something_....

"Bzzt," he replied as he smacked his fingers against the glass, summoning an answering burble of sound from within. “Try again, with feeling. I don’t think it’s terribly healthy for me to have a therapist that’s such a awful liar.”

“He’s nobody important,” she replied evenly.

“Of course not,” he scoffed. “He’s in the reserve class that automatically makes him someone….”

_“Apologies should be made on your knees.”_

Laughter, somehow both foreign and familiar, even white teeth smeared red with blood and the memory of pain in his head, his back.

Oh.

Right.

The boy on the stairs.

He’d never known his name.

It could have been that.

Hinata Hajime.

It was a nice name.

“Someone unremarkable enough to end up in the reserve class couldn’t possibly mean anything to me. I’m talented, after all.” he turned back to face her, expression schooled to indifference as he flounced carelessly across the room to collapse against the couch. “Why don’t you ask me something worthwhile if you’re going to insist on being so nosy?”

She watched him for long moments as he settled back against the pillows, ignoring the suspicion in her gaze.

**+++**

**"war **...** vac **...** der **...** el **...** five **...** or **...** ntine **...inent** "**

**+++**

“No, not really,” Tsumiki Mikan complained softly, the sound of her boot squeaking across the floor loud in the relative quiet of the room. “Oh, I… yes, thank you, I… thank you.”

But he couldn’t focus on her.

Couldn’t.

**+++**

**"g **...e **...**** vel **...** fiv **...** ect **...** seve **...** uara **...** nent"**

**+++**

“Gross,” he’d murmured poking a finger into the thick goo in the pod. The green light that illuminated it seemed too bright, casting Naegi’s features ghastly and gaunt.

Pods.

They look familiar, but he can’t quite place them. 

“I’ve seen these before.” 

“Have you?” Naegi asked, feigning casual interest as he helped him step up, sink a foot into the thick, warm liquid.

He glanced to the next pod down where Kamukura was still lingering beside the pod, expression as impassive and unimpressed as ever as he stared down at the goop.

**+++**

**"vacua **...** er **...** ector **...** ine **...** imminent"**

**+++**

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she called in a singsong voice that set his nerves on edge. “Yes, yes, you’re right. Of course, you’re always right, beloved. I just have to find him.”

Thunder crashed, loud enough to make him flinch, digging his fingers in against his cheek, pressing the heel of his hand against his teeth so hard he was surprised he didn’t taste blood.

She was humming, something soft and out of tune, stumbling over notes at random as he felt the mattress dip and beneath her weight, the bed frame creak as she crawled by beside him, close enough that some stray tendril of hair was caught beneath her, pulling painfully as she shifted restlessly.

The room had looked like something out of a horror movie. Had felt and smelt like it too. Like shit and meat, hot and humid and the girl standing near the entrance had looked like she’d just been sick or was going to be again when he’d come in, stepping deliberately over and around the worst of the debris and all those little puddles of tacky blood and filthy water.

It had sounded like a horror movie as well when he’d come in through the open door to find one of them grunting against something in the corner, awful squelching, slapping sounds echoing loudly through the room accompanied by the whine and flash of Koizumi’s camera.

“Ugh, bleagh, I’m gonna be _sick_ ,” the girl loitering near the entrance grumbled, her cheeks bright red and her arms crossed tightly over her breasts, looking like she couldn’t decide whether to stay or go. Her kimono was caught up over one arm, presumably to keep it from dipping into the mess. “Are you _done_ yet? Can we _go_? This is so _gross_.”

The room was dark, lit only by emergency lights and the occasional flashes from Koizumi’s camera as she darted around the room, stepping lightly over scattered limbs and scraps of metal and wood.

_Squelch._

_Squelch._

_Squish._

“You can wait outside if you want, I’m almost done. I just need to get a few more shots. Just a couple of close-ups,” her teeth flashed white and gleaming in the dim light as she turned back to the source of the revolting rhythmic, squelching noises. “Don’t forget to smile! That’s the most important part. And, look, you’ve really got to get in there. I’m not paying you to fuck around, you know.”

“Shuddup... that is… _uh_ … exactly… what you’re… _ugh_ ,” the boy replied swiping pink hair out of his eyes with one bloodstained hand, coughing and gagging as he turned his face towards his shoulder like his head was trying to remove itself from the actions of the rest of his body. “This is really-”

The noises ceased for a long moment while he coughed and gagged against the back of that same bloodstained hand only to start back up, a moment later. “Look, I’m in it as much I’m gonna get in it, okay? So, just freaking _hurry up_ already… urk… because I’m seriously gonna puke if I've gotta do this too much longer.”

“Really? _God_ , what a _sissy_ you are. What difference does it even make to you? I mean, it’s still warm, isn’t it? You’re a _man_ , aren’t you?” She sniped, the flash blindingly bright.

“What the f- _bleagh_ …freaking...this so... seriously? What is _wrong_ with you, huh? You know… _ugh_ ….”

_Squelch._

“ _Urk._ Okay, no, _ugh_ … that’s it, _urk_ … I hope you got your shot already, because I’m freaking… _urk_ … done,” he grumbled, gagging as he shoved away from the mess in the corner with another final squelching sound, gathering his pants in one hand and yanking them up roughly as he stumbled away.

He barely managed to make it a handful of steps before he tripped and had to catch himself against the wall as he coughed and heaved and vomit splattered across the floor.

Nagito sighed dejectedly, turning his gaze back to Koizumi as the sharp, stinging scent of stomach acid was added to the room’s already putrid bouquet of awfulness.

“I did, thank you,” she replied, her smile tight and unpleasant. “I think I’m going to call it ‘sexuality of despair’ or maybe ‘the depravity of sexuality’, I haven’t decided yet. Either way, I’ll make sure to credit you.”

“Freaking great, I can’t wait,” he gagging again as he fumbled through straightening and fastening his pants. “God, that was freaking _gross_. Next time you want something like that done get a freaking strap-on and do it yourself. Now why don’t you just hand over the bottle so I can go get to forgetting this bullshit ever happened.”

Koizumi scoffed, “I don’t have it _with_ me. You think I just carry bottles of liquor with me everywhere I go? I’ll drop it off to you _later_.”

“Fucking _seriously_?” He jerked a rough hand back through his hair, shooting her a glare as he stumbled away from the wall. “You better not be fucking with me, Koizumi or I’ll…”

“Or you’ll _what_ , drunk tank?” the girl in the fancy kimono inquired, mouth curving into a wide grin. “What’re you going to do, eh? Look at yourself: You can barely _stand_ and you reek like day-old ass. You’re _lucky_ we don’t have it with us. With your self-control you’d probably just end up drinking too much and killing yourself.”

Koizumi had already turned her attention back to her camera, examining her display screen as they argued.

“Shut up! Y-You don’t know any-“ he paused to shove an arm against his mouth to muffle a burp. “You don’t know me. Hey, when’d you get here, Komaeda?”

“A few minutes ago. You were busy,” he answered.

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” he murmured, glancing away, cheeks red with embarrassment. “I know you guys were-“

“It’s fine. She was the person I hated the most so why should it even matter?” He replied flatly.

He hadn’t realized he’d glanced away until he felt his hand settle on his shoulder.

He wasn’t altogether sure why it was there or why a moment later there were arms wrapped around him.

He reeked of alcohol, sweat and bile, but he was warm. Warm everywhere he was cold. He could hear him sniffling against his shoulder and he wasn’t sure what to do.

No one had ever hugged him before.

It was weird.

And warm.

But mostly just weird.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, sniffling loudly as he squeezed him hard enough that his ribs creaked protest against the pressure.

“I don’t know if this is the gayest thing I’ve ever seen, but it’s definitely in the top ten,” kimono girl sniped. “You do realize, Gross-maeda, that he just stuck it in a corpse for the bargain basement price of a cheap ass bottle of booze, right? Heck, if I poured sake on the floor I could probably get him to clean it up with his _tongue_. Right, So- _Duh_?”

“Go to hell,” he slurred, shrinking back and away and pushing through the door out of the room with a loud bang.

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” she called after him, snickering.

“Is this really everybody that’s coming?” Koizumi called, snapping another dozen photos of something in the far corner before stepping away to check her display and review her shots. “This is a pretty pathetic turnout for a wake, isn’t it?”

“Pssh, there’s already too many people here and it’s making my skin itch being around all these losers. The impostor creep is off going through people’s rooms like a freak and that crazy chick with the big tits went to raid the snack cabinet so she has something to vomit up later from the look of her. C’mon, aren’t you _done_ yet? I really _am_ gonna be freaking sick if I have to stay in here much longer.” She grumbled, blowing her cheeks out in irritation. She braced a hand gingerly against the wall as she shifted uncomfortably on her high scandals, switching her grip on the kimono caught up around her arm to keep it from dipping into the mess. “So, seriously, what are you even doing here, Gross-maeda?”

He hummed a noncommittal response, poking at what looked like it might have been a mangled foot with his toe. Or it might have been roast beef in a pale, bloated wallet. Though he couldn’t think why anyone would put roast beef in a wallet.

“Oh my,” Tsumiki commented as she stepped gingerly into the room, her sensible white shoes already coated with grime and blood from the trek downstairs. “This is… oh my, this is so much worse than I thought it would be.”

“Really?” A pirate with close-cropped hair and a scowl commented as he moved in behind her, ignoring the blond girl’s commentary. “This is pretty much _exactly_ as bad as I thought it would be.”

The girl that followed him merely nodded, expression flat and eyes narrowed as she surveyed the room in silence.

“Finally,” Saionji commented, shoving away from the wall. “So, why the heck did you call us here, pig vomit? I don’t think there’s nearly enough of her left for you to make a Junko suit, but her vagina is right over there if you’re interested in giving that a go for old time’s sake.”

Mikan smiled, dropping her head to the side, “Saionji, you don’t have to mask your devastation with sarcasm. I’m sure our beloved knew that you loved her.”

“Shut up!” She snapped, her face flushing as red as the blood splattered across the walls. “I’ll kill you if you-“

“Saionji, we’ll be here all day if you keep it up,” Koizumi interrupted, coming to stand beside her. “Let’s all try to get along just a little while longer.”

“Fine,” Saionji grumbled, mouth screwed up in a pout. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Wonderful. Thank you, Miss Koizumi. Time is of the essence, after all,” Mikan replied, still smiling and stepping lightly around him as she worked further into the room to examine the various bits scattered about. “Oh dear, oh dear. This is really-“

“Hey… you, Snow White? Why don’t you go give the lady a hand, huh?” The pirate commented, nudging him with an expensive loafer. He recognized the brand as one his father had worn.

It was strange the things that stuck with him like gum to the bottom of a shoe.

Ha.

_Shoe._

He chuckled as he stood up and turned to stare down at the pirate beside him.

“I don’t know that that’s really the tone you should strike with someone when you’re asking for a favor,” he replied easily, feeling ambivalent about the entire affair. Her blood was on his fingers. Or someone’s blood was anyway.

He’d watched the broadcast off and on for the last few weeks and it would have been more surprising if there hadn’t been a gross mess of body parts and toxic waste in the basement.

Still… this wasn’t what he’d come for. He’d hated her, hated her more than anyone, and even if he couldn’t feel that, he knew it and so he’d come here as requested, but he didn’t care what happened to what remained.

“Oy, I’ll kill you. Who’s asking _you_ for a favor, bastard?” The pirate snarled, though it seemed more like a tiny dog trying to bark loud enough that maybe someone would think he was big.

He smiled, inclining his head towards the pirate’s expensive shoes. “I assume you don’t want to ruin your fancy shoes with blood.”

“You saying I _won’t_? I could go help out if I wanted to.” He looked a little green as he said it and the girl at his shoulder stepped forward.

“I will…”

“No, no you freaking _won’t_. Girls shouldn’t have to dirty their hands with stuff like this,” he snapped, stepping forward quickly. “This is fine. I’ll handle it.”

“Oh my, this is quite terrible,” the princess commented as she stepped into the room. The long dark trailing shimmer of her dress already pulled up over her arm quite neatly. “Goodness but it is _crowded_ in here, is it not?”

“Yeah, it’s a regular weirdo convention,” kimono girl shrugged,

“You fiends were the first to arrive?” Tanaka inquired, breezing into the room and brushing back his dark hood to reveal sunken eyes and sallow cheeks. He had more scars then he’d had the last time they’d all met.

“T-Tanaka,” the princess stuttered, standing up that much straighter. “Oh, I... you _came_. I am so very glad to see you. I thought you were in New Zealand.”

He glanced at her for a long moment before shifting his gaze back to the center of the room. “I returned from that Hell mere days ago. Where is the one called Souda Kazuichi?”

Kimono girl smirked, wide and mean, clearly cheered by the question. “That drunk bastard is probably off drowning himself in one of the showers upstairs,” she replied gleefully. “Maybe you should go save him. I wouldn’t have sex with him though if I were you. There’s really no telling where he’s been. And by no telling I mean, obviously, we know. You want to hear all about it?”

Tanaka’s usually impassive face went colder, his eyes narrowed to slits. “The abrasive screech of your voice makes the baying of hounds in the depths of hell seem the sweetest music. You may keep your words to yourself or I shall have your tongue removed and fed to them. I have no interest in the obsessive cruelty of _humans_.”

“What the hell does that even _mean_ , animal freak?” She spat, eyes wide and crazed, as he ignored her and disappeared back out the door.

As he left the room behind, a skeletal girl wobbled in, sobbing and weaving from side to side, her gaze wide and feverish. She had a box of donuts under one arm and a bottle of milk grasped in one slim, shaky hand, “Is she here? Is she?”

“After a fashion,” Nagito replied, gesturing vaguely to the room as a whole. “Here and there and everywhere.”

**+++**

**“tseventeen **...** uara **...im** "**

**+++**  

He was on the floor. 

His arm was bleeding.

He could hear her scratching at the door, begging for entrance though he couldn’t hear what she was saying.

Hadn’t….

Hadn’t he been…?

He glanced around frowning at the neatly made, blood-splattered bed. 

He… hadn’t he… he could remember the suffocating warmth of the blanket, the cramping in his muscles as he lay, rife with tension, trying to keep it together. Keep still. Keep quiet as she moved around the room, as she climbed up on the bed beside him.

It had felt so real.

So….

“Is that what I’m supposed to do? I don’t understand,” he whispered, turning his head to stare around the room, at the unfathomable darkness of the hole in the wall, the windows and the rain splashing against them, before finally resting once more on the bed. “Hinata? Are you there? Are you okay?”

He wasn’t surprised when no one answered.

It was probably a stupid question anyway. If Hinata existed, if he was real, he couldn’t be all right. He was probably hurt too. Hurt and alone, just like him. He’d heard him screaming. At least he thought he had. Hinata was probably worse off than he was… wherever he was.

Hinata…

What had he even been hoping for from him anyway? A rescue? That seemed unlikely now. Hinata hadn’t sounded like he’d be rescuing anyone from anything.

Should he be trying to rescue Hinata?

He was probably in trouble.

He really shouldn’t laugh, it wasn’t really funny, but the laughter slipped out through his trembling fingers anyway tinged with hysteria.

Why was he trembling? He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t anything really, just… tired, maybe.

Yes, tired.

He was so… tired of this. Tired of all the wondering and wanting and all the… uncertainty. He’d been so sure before that he’d been doing the right thing; that everything he did had a purpose because it would bring about the hope he was longing to see. That hope would make it all worth it, everything worth it, that it would make his life… mean _something_.

It was really pretty stupid.

His life could never really mean anything. Had he really thought it was possible that a lowly, pathetic person like himself could ever truly be worth anything at all?

Silly.

Still… it would have been… something worth seeing if he could just last long enough to see it. If he could just stay alive a little longer, go a little further, be a little more, do something to help it along. Everything and anything had been worth doing in pursuit of that goal.

That _hope_.

That bright, brilliant hope he’d always dreamed of.

And he hated him for stealing that certainty away.

He hated him… and he didn’t and everything hurt.

Even that hand.

That hand that had been hers and now it wasn’t.

That was his again or at least it had been and now it _wasn’t_ again and the place where it had been attached, where it was still attached maybe, _ached_. And the hand itself… was just there, a useless inconvenience; numb and flopping like a dead fish on the end of a line.

He’d let them do it. He’d been happy to let them do it, because he’d wanted… he’d wanted something from it, from her. He’d needed that reminder so he wouldn’t forget like he forgot everything else and so he could still… still remember what it was like when she’d held out her hand to him.

For them he’d just been the one with the right blood type, the one who drew the short straw. He was just the lucky one, as always.

But to him…

To him it had seemed like a gift… like it was how things were supposed to be.

The hand she had once offered him in friendship.

Only it hadn’t really been that.

He knew that.

He did.

Just.

Sometimes he forgot.

He was lucky, after all.

“Looks like it’s me,” he’d commented, staring down at the coin in his hand. He felt nothing, but a sudden rush of giggles seeping from his lips to fill the air anyway as he lifted his gaze to Mikan’s downturned face. “Looks like I can still rely on my luck.”

“I do hope so,” she replied, caressing the hand in its bed of ice reverently. “There are a lot of risks involved and if you died right away that wouldn’t be any good at all. Don’t worry. I’ll stay with you while you heal. I’ll take such good care of you.” She cooed the words, her gaze still locked on those red tipped fingers. “Such very good care.”

He felt cold, but then he almost always felt cold these days.

It probably didn’t mean anything.

He was garbage, really, this was what he deserved, but it was fine. It would all be fine, wouldn’t it? In fact, it was actually a good thing, if he thought about it. If he died this way, part of her would die with him and hope would blossom from that and if he didn’t… well, he would have to make use of this to create an even brighter hope. And he was lucky, after all, so whatever happened, he could trust it was for the best. He could trust his luck to carry him through.

Hope was such a beautiful, terrible thing. 

He shuddered, letting his head fall back against the wall as the others began discussing all the details he cared nothing about.

The important part was settled and that was all that mattered really. 

“You are, of course, of course, you are.” She murmured somewhere close by as he found himself nested once more in the suffocating darkness of the bed.

He felt sick.

“You’re my beloved,” she cooed, her voice gentle, kind. “I… I just…”

**+++**

**“vacuation **...** ect **...** an **...** ent"**

**+++**

He felt the mattress shift and move, felt it lift as her feet hit the floor with a thump.

"It's fine, you'll figure it out,” he bit down hard against the flesh of his numb arm, hard enough that he tasted blood. It was the only way he could keep from screaming.

He knew that voice.

He would know her voice anywhere.

Anywhere at all.

“I believe in you, pupupu!"

And he wanted to run to her, to burst from his hiding space and fling himself at her feet.

She was… she was… she was… ali-

“Don’t be an _idiot_.”

His voice was clear as the ringing of a bell and close, so close he thought he could feel the warmth of his words against the back of his throat.

He hadn’t expected Kamukura to stay with him after the key turned in the lock and the door swung open to reveal a familiar face he couldn’t quite place. Though he wasn’t really sure where he’d expected Kamukura to go either.

The person who’d come to get them was young with messy brown hair and black ink spread across his arms in swirling, dizzying patterns that made his eyes and his head hurt when he looked at them for too long.

He’d offered them a strained smile and gestured for them to follow as he stepped back out into the hall beyond their little room. “C’mon, we need to hurry.”

They both followed in silence and if he trailed a bit behind it was as much because he could already feel the strain of the journey in the heaviness of his limbs and the tightness in his chest as it was from reluctance for the journey to end. The brightness of the sun made him squint as little squiggles invaded the sides of his vision. The ocean breeze was cool as it sent his jacket fluttering around him and he shivered.

He couldn't help staring at the hypnotic swing and bounce of Kamukura’s long, long hair as they walked, as that same unpleasant breeze sent all those long strands twisting and shifting around him. It was like looking in a kaleidoscope filled with dark crystals: turning, tumbling, beautiful against the light, the pale of sand and wood. If they noticed his attention no one commented on it. He was grateful for that. It made him feel… weirdly normal to just stare at him even though he knew it was probably anything but.

That  _he_  was anything but.

He hadn't realized that Kamukura had slowed until he stumbled and bumped against his back. Or maybe he hadn't slowed down at all. Maybe he'd been the one to speed up. He stifled a nervous giggle with the back of his good hand, "Oops, sorry."

"You're slow," Kamukura answered though he wasn't altogether certain from the flatness of his tone whether it was an observation or a judgment. Wasn't even sure if he cared. Kamukura was already moving away, leaving him behind to stare at the swing of his hair again.

This was fine, he was fine.  

And then, of course, he had to make it weird.

“I like your hair,” he called, smiling at Kamukura's back.

He stopped dead in his tracks making it a simple matter to catch up to him just by stumbling forward, but once he reached him, he ground to a stop beside him instead of moving on, curious. It seemed to take a really long time before Kamukura finally slanted a glance at him, gaze assessing as if he were gauging the sincerity of his words before he finally replied with a soft: “Do you?”

Almost before he could process the look on Kamukura's face, he was off again, striding away to resume his pace as if he'd never stopped in the first place. He stared after him for a moment, a smile fluttering on his lips. "Huh," he murmured, gaze caught again in the swing of Kamukura's hair. He wasn't sure... but it had seemed... he hadn't said it like he was particularly interested or anything, but instead like he was commenting on the weather or the state of political affairs in Bulgaria. But that was fine. Disinterest was fine. Disinterest was much better than the inevitability of outright rejection or disgust, but... he was pretty sure that he'd seen that expression before.

“If I told you... that you had a... nice body, would... would you hold it against me?” He blurted out, stumbling over the words. It was difficult to speak, difficult to catch his breath because he almost had to skip to keep up with Kamukura’s long, purposeful stride, his legs ached from the unwelcome exertion.

That glance again and this time he was sure and it made him feel giddy, drunk on elation... or maybe that was just the lack of oxygen to his brain. Either way, it felt nice. 

It was just like with the boat.

Kamukura was enjoying this, enjoying him, even if only a very little bit.

The answer still came in the same bland disinterested tone, “No.”

But he didn't let that bother or deter him as he stumbled into a walk, gasping and smiling at nothing in particular. “What’s your favorite color?”

Kamukura turned back to look at him fully this time, the faintest furrow in his brow, as if the question surprised or confused him or both. But that little twitch was still there, the memory of a smile, and he grinned, holding his good hand against his chest as if that could still the racing of his heart. “Did you know that when hippopotami sleep in the water their bodies automatically bob up to the surface to take a breath than sink back down again?” 

“Why are you doing this?" Kamukura asked, his voice soft as he continued to walk backwards so he could stare at him without losing time. 

“Don’t you know?” He asked, letting a grin steal across his face as Kamukura’s brow furrowed again, his lips twitching in that prelude to a smile that never quite became. 

“You’re… doing it for me. Why?” He wasn't sure if the question was reflex or curiosity, but he answered anyway.

“You seemed to be enjoying it.” 

Kamukura turned back around swiftly, his words so quiet that they were almost lost to the sound the sea lapping against the shore, “I’m not.”

“Would you two  _please_  hurry up?” Their escort called over his shoulder, “We need to get started quickly or we’re going to run out of time.”

“Are we?” He asked curiously, slowing even as Kamukura’s hand lashed back to close around his wrist, dragging him forward into step with his quickening pace. He yelped in surprise, stumbling along with him, surprise sweeping his already labored breath away and leaving him gasping like a fish out of water. “W-wait, I…”

He stumbled again this time tipping forward and almost falling over the back of Kamukura who was suddenly crouched down in front of him. “Get on,” he ordered, tone abrupt, impatient, as he reached back to sweep all that long hair over his shoulder, out of the way. 

“What are you-“ 

Kamukura sighed heavily as if he were used to waiting for the rest of the world to catch up with him, but it was still a constant source of frustration. “Your body is weak. You’re already at your limit. You must be necessary if you are here so I will carry you to the facility.”

“I thought I was boring?” 

“That doesn’t make you special,” he answered, still turned away, still crouched expectantly as if there wasn’t the faintest sliver of doubt that he would eventually obey his command. “It just makes you like everyone else.”

“Huh,” he murmured, fingers of his good hand closing over one jacket-clad shoulder before draping his useless arm over the other so he could balance his weight forward over the hunch of his shoulders. “Th-That sounds really dull.”

 “…It is,” he answered as his arms slid beneath his knees and he stood with no apparent difficulty.

They continued on towards whatever destination their guide had in mind and it was… not pleasant exactly, but not uncomfortable either. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this close to someone… which was nothing new, but it was… unpleasantly hot and the heavy, sun-warmed weight of that hair was soft and strange against his hand.

It was... kind of....

There’s a song in his head, music rising with the strange contentment he feels as he closes his eyes and rests his cheek against the soft of Kamukura’s hair.

He hummed softly to himself in time with the even bounce of Kamukura's steps, lyrics half-remembered spilling from his lips as he drifted towards sleep.

“… just don’t you feel too bad when you get fooled by smiling faces….”

He blinked awake on the ground of a dark room to the feel of someone nudging him in the side with their shoe. “Wake up already.”

“Hm? Okay, sorry,” he yawned, tilting his head to look around the dark room lit sporadically as it was by the soft green running lights and the blinding bright white of computer screens. “Where... why am I here?”

Somewhere in the darkness, someone was typing.

He could hear the sort click-clack of the keys.

_Click-clack._

_Click-click-click-click-click-click-clack-click-clack-click-click-clack-click-clack-click-click-clack-click-clack-click- click-clack-click-clack-click- click-clack-click-clack-click- click-clack-click-clack-click- click-clack-click-clack-click- click-clack-click-clack-click._

_Click-click-click-clack._

_Click-click-clack._

The foot that had been nudging at his side shifted away and his gaze followed the movement automatically to the foot’s owner. His face seemed pale in the dim strangely lit space, long dark hair that falling like a curtain around him. He was handsome… if you liked that sort of thing.

Did he like that sort of thing?

Maybe. It seemed like he might. Which probably made him....

There was a word for it, wasn't there?

It was right at the tip of his brain, but he couldn't quite seem to reach it. 

Something... definitely something...

The handsome person was talking to him again, but it sounded strange, like he was speaking underwater or too slow... something. 

"Uoy era ereh."

More words, still nothing he could make sense of.

Just... stuff and nonsense.

He squinted at the shape of lips, could see the syllables forming, but he'd never been any good at that either.

_Click-clack._

Probably.

He couldn't really... It was hard to....

"I'm sorry," he managed or he tried to anyway, but that sounded wrong too. Mushy and mixed up and squishing between his toes.

Why was there a bird in here?

_Click-clack._

Why... pineapple?

Everything shelled like pineapples and his legs...

Shelled?

That wasn't right, was it?

There was... he was... he....

_Click-clack._

Was talking again, little wrinkles between his eyebrows that meant he was... was... happy? Sad? Mad? Cucumber?

That wasn't right either wax it?

Wax?

"It's so dark in here. It's so dark

"I'm scared.

"Please don't leave me here.

"I'll be good.

"I'll be..."

_Click, clack._

"Sorry... I'm sorry... I'm...."

He woke up to a world draped black and white.

"Post match commentary provided by Toyota."

"I don't understand," he whispered, the words echoing around him.

_Click._

_Click._

_Click-clack._

"There's a bicycle in the yard. It’s filthy. Did you _steal_ it, Nagito?"

"Bicycle?" He echoed, his stomach dropping into his shoes. "I don't know how to ride a bicycle."

"I never left my door open at night, but he was always there anyway. Like he came in through the walls. I couldn't keep him out. Nothing could. So I thought... maybe it was because I invited him in. Maybe it was because I wanted him there. Do you think that's true?"

_Click-clack._

"Even when you have nothing left, there's still despair. People can steal everything else away from you, but they can't ever take that sinking feeling or that sludge that lingers always at the very bottom of the well, at the lowest depths of your soul. People can steal your happiness, they can steal your hope, but despair always remains."

So many voices like memories, like leaves blown in a failing wind. Quick and slow, rolling, tumbling syllables barely recognizable, words stumbling and slurring relentlessly through the dark. Skipping, tripping, zipping through his brain until it's so full there's nowhere else for it to go but out, to spill from his lips and splatter across the floor.

The darkness around him, above him, spoke in firm, flat tones steady as oars slapping the surface of still water, but he couldn't understand a word.

Might as well have been a foreign language.

Was he dreaming?

Maybe. Could people dream in foreign languages? Were they really still foreign if you could dream them up?

Static cut across the world, buzzing in his head, thick and angry and loud like a swarm of bees defending their queen. He was pretty sure he screamed, but it was hard to tell because all he could hear was the buzzing. So he clapped his hands over his ears, but it didn't do anything to muffle the sound because the sound was in his head. 

 _Always_  in his head.

Everything was...  _everything_.

Everything.

_Warm._

There was something warm pressed against his forehead, over his lips and nose and lower jaw and it was... it was distracting and the bees seemed to think so too as they were quieting within him until their protests were little more than a whisper, a whimper, just a distant fluttering around the edges of his awareness. An awareness that was filled with the press of warm hands and cascade of hair spilling around him like a curtain, the feel of fever warm skin... a forehead, maybe... pressed against the chill of his own.

He could hear someone breathing, soft and even and close and so very different from his own panicked, snorting inhales.

His tongue felt huge and dumb in his mouth. Not that he could offer so much as a word with that warm hand sealed over his mouth keeping it shut.

Keeping the stupid inside.

Nothing he’d ever said had ever been worth hearing anyway.

It he was probably lucky that hand was there.

Someone was typing. 

He could hear the soft click-clack of the keys floating through the dark behind his eyelids.

"Don't scream," a voice murmured, soft and deep and close. “I need you to be calm.”

He blinked his eyes open to stare into the shadowed, intent gaze of the person who'd spoken.

It seemed almost crimson, but he wasn’t sure if that was real or just a trick of the light. Either way it was weird and disconcerting and the blank look in them froze whatever casual words of greeting he was going to utter on his tongue.

Those eyes were definitely red. 

Red, like strawberries, like the flowers in his parents' garden, like blood... how did eyes get to be that color anyway?

The hand that covered his mouth eased away and warm air blew across his lips in its place as he spoke, "This is Jabberwock Island. You've come here to participate in an experimental treatment."

He heard the words, but it was difficult to focus on anything but the warm breath against his lips, his cheeks.  

“Hello,” he said and the word felt awkward, clumsy, as it tripped off his tongue. “I… your breath smells like cinnamon."

He wanted to kiss him.

A finger fell across his lips, stilling the motion before he could lift his head up to follow through with the thought.

"Better not. That’s not the way I intend to use you."

What did that even  _mean_?

He opened his mouth to ask and closed it over the tip of the finger there instead, touching the skin tentatively with his tongue. 

He tasted like dirt and sweat.

It wasn't attractive at all, but the startled breath and the way those strange red eyes widened ever so slightly in surprise  _was_.

Then that surprise was gone as if it had never been. 

The finger was withdrawn and he let it go. 

"Are you sick too?" He found himself asking and the stranger huffed out a breath, glancing away as he sat back on his heels.

"Not the way you mean."

"Were you able to get him stabilized?" Someone asked, their voice floating through the dark from somewhere relatively close by though it echoed strangely.

“There is very little I can not do. I am loved by talent after all.”

"You’ve mentioned. If he’s okay, we need to get started."

He stood up slowly before offering him a hand, "Come."

He stared at the offered hand dumbly for long moments before he shook himself to action and offering him a tentative smile. "Oh, I haven't introduced myself, have I? I'm really bad at things like this..."

“You’re Komaeda Nagito,” he commented his voice and expression as flat as the floor on which he sat. “We’ve had this conversation before.” 

His stomach sank.

Oh… right. 

He was….

He turned his face away, dejected, "Ah, I see."

How many times had this happened? How many times had he done this? It had happened before, hadn't it?

How old was he now?

Did he love anyone?

Had he killed someone?

Had he ever kissed anyone and meant it?

Had anyone ever kissed him back?

Had he lived a whole life in the spaces between?

Would he even know if he had?

Would it even  _matter_?

He managed a smile as he turned back to look up at him again, but it felt fragile, breakable, “Oh. We have, huh? That must be annoying. I wouldn’t know, but I can imagine it’s really difficult to deal with. I’m grateful that you’re willing to put up with me even though I know it isn’t worth the effort. You see, I’m-“

“Dying,” he finished for him even though that hadn’t been what he meant to say at all.

“Ah, yes, I…” he trailed off, letting his gaze flick away to study the bright lights of the computer screens, the shadowy figure of a person bent over them, face washed pale by the bright white of those lights.

That was….

He was... lucky, wasn’t he?

Lucky that he somehow never forgot that part… even when he forgot everything else.

That way it was never a surprise.

He was really… lucky.

“You’re still boring,” he said, suddenly, as casually as if he were continuing a conversation they'd been having all day. He wasn’t looking at him this time, instead staring across to the person at the computer, his tone flat and disinterested as he spoke. As if he weren’t even really talking to him at all, like he was just stating random facts for the benefit of the room at large. “Everyone dies eventually. Talented or no. It's the one great equalizer. A body runs down like an old watch unwound whether you will it or no. You've lasted this long. Far longer than you should have."

"Luck," he murmured, reaching out to rest the tips of his fingers against the hand he was still offering him. 

"Maybe. Or maybe your talent was never luck to begin with," he replied, taking hold of his hand and lifting him to his feet. 

"That's..." he trailed off, stumbling on unsteady legs. He let the motion carry him forward, let his face collide with his chest, his hands catch against the shoulders of his white, white shirt, it was damp and warm and smelled distinctly of sweat. It was... 

He was...

"Lucky may not be all that you are. I suppose we shall see soon enough." The voice murmured and he could have sworn he felt a touch ghost across his hair, but by the time he took a shaky breath and lifted his head his companion's arms were limp at his sides. So maybe he'd just been imagining things. It wouldn't be the first time.

Either way, the smile he gave him as he pushed away and stood on his own felt a little less brittle than the one from moments before. "How did you... did I tell you my talent?"

"No," he replied in that same flat, matter of fact voice before turning to cross the room to the computer console and the boy in front of it.

"Oh, okay." Somehow he hadn't expected him to answer that simplistically... or at all maybe. 

He trailed after him, wincing a bit as each step brought a new ache that he couldn't remember earning. By the time he'd stumbled his way across the room he was exhausted and barely even had the energy to be surprised when he pushed him down into a chair. "Sit down before you fall down."

"You're really bossy for a person whose name I don't even know," he replied, huffing a laugh.

"You'll just forget it again even if I tell you."

It was true, probably, but it still stung.

"He's Kamukura Izuru," the person who hadn't stopped typing away at his keyboard since he arrived replied, glancing up to meet his eyes briefly. "Komaeda? Feeling okay?"

He laughed, "No, but that's no more than I deserve really. How do _you_ know my name?"

He wasn’t even sure why he bothered asking.

It was reflex mostly.

He half-expected them to exchange a look or for the computer person to be obviously disconcerted by the question, almost everyone was, but the boy just smiled tightly and continued typing. "I'm Naegi Makoto."

As if that answered everything.

And in a way it did.

Because he knew that name.

"You're the other one. The other... lucky student, but I..." he trailed off uncertain how to finish the sentence.

"I was," he answered, easily picking up the dangling thread of conversation. "But it’s been a long time since I was that person. You're here to participate in an experimental treatment."

"That’s what he said too. I don’t understand what that means."

"What else did you tell him?" He didn’t look at them or stop typing, but his shoulders seemed weirdly tense.

_Why?_

Was there something he wasn’t supposed to know?

The thought made him nervous.

"Nothing of importance. You said time was of the essence, I would recommend you get on with it,” Kamukura replied, cold and crisp as the first breath of winter.

“Right, okay,” he typed a few more commands into the computer before pushing back from the desk. “Alright, you guys are going to need to lose the clothes. I’ll get the pods ready.”

“Lose the… oh,” Komaeda murmured, pressing fingers against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. “This is starting to sound more like a bad porn set-up than an experiment.”

Naegi snorted, offering him a weak smile as he pushed up from his chair and disappeared into the dark of the room. “Sorry to disappoint, but neither of you are really my type.”

“Sorry,” he back-pedaled quickly, turning his gaze down and away, chuckling as he slipped out of his jacket, shivering violently as the cool air hit his sweaty skin. “I d-d-didn’t mean to im-imply th-that some… one l-like you w-w-would be in-interested in g-g-g-garbage l-like m-me, its ju-ju-ju-ju-ju….”

He gnashed his teeth together, but it didn’t do any good. He couldn’t stop them from chattering anymore than he could have kept the sun from rising. And it just kept getting worse and worse until he finally just gave up on talking altogether, pulling his shirt over his head with trembling hands before reaching down to fumble off his boots and socks. He wasn’t even that cold, not really, just… just….

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Naegi answered, his voice softer, kinder.

The voice of pity.

It was _revolting_.

“I didn't..." he continued hesitantly. "I just have someone I like and-”

“No one cares. Your lifestyle choices are boring, Naegi Makoto. I would suggest you turn your attention to more essential matters. Your clumsy reassurances are transparent and he does not have any use for your pity.”

Nagito smiled down at the floor. They weren’t complimentary, really, but for some reason Kamukura’s words still made him feel warmer.

Naegi laughed awkwardly, “I suppose you’re right.” His voice was distant and accompanied by a series of soft beeps and a quiet whoosh. “Just come over when you’re done and I’ll get you both hooked up.”

He stood up and struggled out of his pants, almost falling over twice, but each time Kamukura’s warm hand landed against his shoulder just in time to steady him, releasing him immediately once he’d regained his balance.

He tried really hard not to look at him.

He failed miserably, of course, because he was the very worst kind of trash, peeking at him…  _leering_  at him through his hair as he kicked free of his pants at last and stood shivering in his boxers and socks, arms crossed tight over his belly.

His brown skin seemed pale in the white light of the monitor, but firm, well-toned as if he went out of his way to take care of his body. Very different from his own body which hadn’t been anything to write home about even before… not that there had ever really been that much before to speak of really . It seemed like he’d always been bouncing from one illness to the next.

Now he couldn’t even bring himself to look down, to confirm the outline of ribs or the loss of muscle mass or the scars or the sagging pale of his skin.

To confirm how much worse it was now than what he last remembers.

It’s bad enough that he has to touch it.

It was both easier and harder to look at Kamukura instead, to study the flex of his legs or the curve of his ass or the line of his shoulders, the bend of his spine.

He had a mark in the dead center of his back like someone had touched him with ink black fingers, pressed a thumb to the spot and left a permanent print behind in indelible ink.

He really shouldn’t be staring at him this way.

He really was an awful person, just the very worst slime to ever ooze across the surface of the world.

Always wanting things he couldn’t even begin to imagine having.

**+++**

**"Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent."**

**+++**

He was on kneeling on the floor again in the hospital room as she scratched at the door, his head spinning, aching.

He felt sick.

A red light spun to life blaring warning across the poorly lit room with blinding efficiency. 

Nagito startled falling tumbling back onto his butt as an automated voice whirled to life, crackling with static and slurred like the power was running down. "Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent."

"I... I don't know what that means," he whispered, gaze whipping back and forth across the room searching for an answer and coming up empty.

Somewhere out of sight an alarm began, rhythmic and familiar. He remembered the sound from fire drills at school, from ill-timed pranks at the hospitals he’d stayed in. The sound had always made his head hurt.

"Warning: Evacuation Order Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent,” the automated voice called again.

“I don’t know what that means! I don’t-“

“Do you really think you can do this?”

He laughed, a rough disbelieving cackle over as quickly as it began, as he brushed his hair out of his eyes with a distracted hand. The crudely drawn map of routes in and out of Towa City was laid out on the table between them pinned down by condiment bottles. “Me?”

“I’m pretty sure they’d recognize  _me_. Plus, you’re going anyway, right?”

He hummed, smiling and inclining his head, “There is something there I want to see.”

He nodded, tracing his finger over the buildings and bridges. “Looks like there are two major routes into the city that don’t require flight. One is here and the other is through the maintenance tunnel here. You’re sure about these?”

He shrugged, “Don’t you trust me?”

“While our interests align, yes.”

“You’re not as stupid as I thought you’d be,” he offered generously, unsurprised at the eye roll his compliment received. “You seemed much stupider on television.”

“Most people do when they’re not aware they’re being watched by hundreds of thousands of people,” Naegi sighed. “Still, you’re the one who came to me so I figure I can trust you in this even if you are one of her…”

“I wasn’t her anything.”

“Says the man with the red-nailed hand.”

“Hm. It’s a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?”

“I’ll let you know when I remember,” he finished, laughing at the frown on Naegi’s face. “What does it _matter_? You were willing to trust my information so what do my reasons matter to you?”

“I suppose they don’t. I really don’t want to involve the others until I have to even though they’ll be going in anyway based on the information you provided, but they won’t be able to infiltrate the… you said they were kids?”

“Mm hm, that’s what she said. Children she saved from their despair so that they would spread that despair to others. I…” He grasped for their names, their faces, anything about them besides a vague of small people. There was nothing, just dim formless memories slipping through his fingers like smoke. “They were… I… sorry, I….”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Naegi was suddenly there, a hand on his arm, bracing him as if he’d been about to fall. Had he been? “You’ve been a lot of help. Look, you don’t have to do this if-“

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, stumbling back and away, arms curling around him, the oven mitt he was using to conceal her arm scratchy against his skin. Panic rose and fell away as he retreated back away from the man looking at him with such sympathy. “You said it too: I’m going for myself anyway. It’s no trouble to look into this other matter for you while I’m there.”

"Thank you. I do appreciate your help."

He hated Naegi Makoto.

Hated the kindness on his face and the stubbornness in his heart, the tenacity that drove him… just as he loved the hope he inspired in him.

He made him want to be  _better_  than he was.

Maybe he affected everyone like that.

Maybe that was his true talent.

That was why he was here, that was why he had come here after everything.

He’d seen him on the television, standing with all the others, but apart as well and he’d remembered… remembered that Naegi Makoto had  _tried_. He’d tried to understand him even though he was… so he’d found him. It hadn’t been hard. He’d still had plenty of money even though money didn’t mean much in this new world. Plenty enough to get a location, find a way to corner him and speak with him in private to confirm that he was the person he thought he was.

Cynical.

Hopeful.

Reckless.

_Committed._

“They were about to jump off the roof, you know. I saved them. I spoke to them and pulled them back from the edge. Sent them back inside.” She made a face when he didn’t respond immediately, “Aren’t you at least going to tell me I did something really great? Come _on_ , Nagito, at _least_ congratulate me on saving them.”

“Saving them? Is that what they’re calling it these days?” He inquired, prodding at the frog’s innards with the tip of the scalpel they’d been given.

“And here I thought you’d be off and rambling about what a _hopeful_ act I’d performed, how _inspiring_ it was, that sort of thing. You’re _such_ a _killjoy_ ,” Junko sighed, head lolling against her hand as she slumped against the table, making no effort to even appear as if she were participating in the assignment.

He slanted a glance at her, twisting the knife to sever the frog’s heart. “Did you actually help them? Or did you let them stay in whatever circumstances put them on the roof?”

She smiled, a wide Cheshire cat grin, “Caught that, huh?”

“Sometimes an end is the brightest hope of all,” he said lifting the heart out and setting it aside. “Sometimes an end is all there is left to hope for.”

“You’re probably right. When I told their parents what had happened they didn’t seem the forgiving sort.”

“You’re a terrible person.”

“Everyone is a terrible person, some people just hide it better than others.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Don’t you? I would have thought you hoped people would overcome their inherent wickedness, discard their own selfish desires to show love and kindness to others or some lameass crap like that. Isn’t that the most hopeful outlook?”

“No,” he shook his head hard as if that might banish the idea from existence. “Stop it.”

“Oh, come on, Komaeda, play with me. You can't be half as interested in that frog as you're pretending to be."

"Don't want to."

"Everybody has expectations they can’t measure up to, goals they’ll never meet, everybody wishes they were more than what they are, everyone wants something they can’t have. Everyone is fighting against their own despair without ever realizing that it is the threat of despair that keeps them going. Despair keeps you hungry, gives you permission to pursue the things you want. Despair is a heart that can never be full. It consumes everything you pour into it and desperately wants _more_. More and more and _more_. Despair is the fire that burns and the world is the fuel. Other people are what keep that fire raging: their expectations, their condemnation, their abuse, their praise, their selfish wants and needs and desires. That’s what despair is. Despair is life. So long as we live, so long as there are other people in the world, there will _always_ be despair. It is all we are, Komaeda, it’s all we’ve ever been. Everything is so much easier once you just accept it, you know.”

“I’m not like that,” he whispered, staring hard at the frog to avoid looking at her, at the fierce light that always shone in her eyes when she talked about it.

“Hm. Maybe not. After all, no one has ever loved _you_ , have they? No one has ever expected anything from _you_. If their expectations were any lower it would be like you didn’t even exist, wouldn’t it? You think your talent makes you special, but it doesn’t. You think hope fills you up inside, makes you feel less hollow, but it doesn’t. And your talent? That stupid talent you’re so proud of? That talent that betrays you at every turn by just serving to further alienate you from everyone around you. Someone like you, someone as _pathetic_ as you, someone that no one really cares about, I suppose you might not be like the rest of us. Maybe there’s something _wrong_ with you. Maybe you’re missing some essential piece and that’s why you’ve never been worth anything to anyone. Or maybe you’re just what happens when despair isn’t fed, but the body continues to live on. Maybe that’s all your hope really is. Just you trying to fill a bottomless pit, to stoke the ashes of a fire that never kindled, I mean, if that’s true than you’re not even really a person at all are you? You’re just nothing. Less than nothing even. But then, you already know that, _right_?”

He stared at their frog, at the delicate skin driven through with pins to expose the gooey insides as the teacher continued to drone on oblivious.

Beside him she shrugged carelessly, “Anyway, they’re no good to me if they aren’t steeped as deeply in despair as I am. This way they’ll be just that much more grateful when I rescue them from their circumstances, just that much more loyal when I take them away from all that ails them. I have such plans after all. Children are the future, after all, am I right?”

“Terrible,” he whispered, reaching inside and pinching the heart between his fingers until it burst under the pressure.

"If you really thought that you wouldn't be smiling."

"Mr. Komaeda, if you are going to insist on talking to yourself and disrupting the class, please do so in the hallway so the other students can learn the material you clearly have no interest in."

"Yes, sir, sorry," he mumbled, gathering his bag and making his way to the door with the sound of her laughter ringing in his ears.

**+++**

**"der **...l** e **...or-tsev **...**** antine **...** inent"**

**+++**

On the floor again and she’s still scratching at the door, still calling out to him.

There is no red light, no alarm, no strange warning alert. There’s only the dark and her outside the door and the storm outside the window. He's laying on the floor and everything hurts. 

“Komaeda? Can you hear me?”

“Hinata?” He mouths the name, unable to find the will to put put sound behind it.

“You have to get up.”

“Get up?” He asks softly, opening his eyes enough to peer across the pale, blood-splattered tile. "Why?"

“You have to hide.”

“Hide?" He echoed, uncertain. "Why?”

“You can’t let her catch you.”

This. This again. First that compulsion to run, to hide and now this. Hinata telling him what to do, throwing caution at him in the form of an order. 

“Why?” He asked tiredly.

Hinata sounded annoyed, “What are you? _Five?_ Stop just asking _why_.”

“ _No!_  Not _you_. You don't talk to me that way. Not _you_ ," he snapped, fingers of his good hand digging against his collarbone.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm... just... _don't_ , please. Not _you_. Just... not you," he took a breath, shaky, his throat was painfully dry. "Besides, I think it’s a pretty pertinent question. I mean, I keep running away, hiding from her, from... from _everything_ , even _you_ , I just keep… but I don't know  _why_? Why am I doing all this? What's the point? Why do I keep remembering all these things? Do you know, Hinata? Can _you_ tell me? Can you tell me why? What can she really do to me? Kill me? Hurt me? I mean, I’m already dead, aren’t I? What’s the point of all this? Why are you doing here? Are you doing this? Is this just punishment? Is it because I-I'm not-”

“Komaeda, no,  _please_ I….”

“Please _what_ , Hinata?”

“I don’t _know_ , okay? I don’t know, but you're not... and I’m… you're not _dead._  I can't believe I'm... _damn_... I just... I can't stop thinking that you might be real. That this is all... what if this is all…?”

“I don't understand. Why are you doing this?”

“Shut up, just shut up, okay? I know it’s stupid. I know it’s _crazy_ and I'm... I _know_ , but… but what if it _isn't_ crazy? What if we're still connected and this is... and you are... you? I... what if she catches you and I… what if you never wake up?”

“Wake… up?" He repeated, the words falling like stones in still water, throwing ripples across the surface of his brain. "I… Hinata... I....”

**+++**

**"war **...** vac **...** r **...** lev **...** or **...t **...**** ntine **...** immi"**

**+++**

“You think this is going to fix us?” He asked as he braced his feet against the table and pushed his chair back to balance precariously on two legs.

“Fix you? Not exactly,” Naegi replied, staring intently at the collection of pictures spread across the board. “But it’s better than the alternative and I think it’s really the only move left to us. Alter Ego should be able to override the safety protocols and countermand the mandates if the program specifics she procured for us are correct and I have a back up plan just is case things go wrong so it should be fine. Probably. The facility itself is all but completed already since the intention was to use it to help the people from Towa City so that part at least should be pretty straightforward. All I need to do is get you all there in one piece.”

“They built that thing to help the poor traumatized people of Towa City and you’re going to use it to help the people who sent the world off the rails,” he clicked his tongue, a thin smile curving his lips. “Some Ultimate Hope you are.”

Naegi laughed, scrubbing a nervous hand across the back of his head, “You’re probably right, but I don’t want to see anyone else suffer for what was done to you, to all of us.”

“Well, it wouldn't be like we wouldn't have earned our share of suffering. You know that they’ll probably kill you for this.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, “They’re certainly welcome to give it a shot. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m pretty hard to kill.”

“Well, we are lucky,” he replied, hiding an answering smile behind his hand as he dropped his legs and let his chair fall back to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the midpoint. Hooray! Welcome to the midpoint chapter. Though, technically, I suppose this is the first 5/8 of the midpoint chapter. I try to keep the chapters on this story below the 18k words mark just as a matter of course and this one was clocking in at about 25k so I cut it into chunks and the back half will be up as a separate chapter either tomorrow or Wednesday (Update 7/15: And then I spent a damn long time at the hospital which, while ironic, is not even a little bit conducive to getting things done. So, long and ridiculous story short, updates will come when they come. Good times. -.-) 
> 
> So, anyway, there shall be two (kind of) chapters in this week to celebrate the whole 'all this new canon material is about to blow all kinds of holes in my characterizations' thing. But that's only to be expected and I'm just thrilled to see how things actually turn out in canon and, in the meantime, I shall be soldiering on to the end of the road on this story while ignoring D3 as much as possible. And when all is said and done I'll probably write another story, one that actually takes D3 into account. 
> 
> You know, assuming everyone I like isn't dead by the end. ^_^
> 
> Teruteru's accent... is an abomination, but it's an abomination that I had a lot of fun with.
> 
> The song Komaeda is singing while Kamukura is carrying him is Stevie Wonder's " _Don't You Worry 'Bout a Thing_ " lest we forget that I make my own fun.
> 
>  **Souda:** I always thought it made more sense for the examples she used to be those who were still around to feel horrified by the potential memory of the things they had done. That just made more sense to me so that's what I rolled with. 
> 
> **Timeline:** Yup, it jumps all over the place. That will continue into next chapter and then things will get significantly more linear for a while.
> 
>  **Principals:** Might not be readily apparent yet, but the principals in this chapter and last are different people as I have a theory that Kirigiri's Father did not take over as principal until the same year she began attending.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading. You can catch me over on tumblr if you're into that sort of thing: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/midnight-run-amok. ^_^


	13. Kill Your Darlings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nagito's no good, very bad day reaches a new low.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a very minor spoiler for D3: Despair Arc Ep3. FYI.

_“Being lost isn't the same as being nowhere. Being lost is worse because there's the false hope that you might be found.”_  
― Paul Tremblay, The Little Sleep

+++  
**DAY THREE**  
-continued-

He’s kneeling on the bed as the red light pulses through the room, using the grate to saw through the cheap mattress, to tear frantic chunks of foam and fluff away, piling them on a sheet. He's aware that he's doing it so he can haul them to the grate more easily, but he can't quite remember why. Only that it’s important, necessary, vital to the plan.

What plan?

Whose plan?

Hers? His? Is he dancing to his own tune or is he merely a puppet on a string? Her string? His? Does it matter? Does he even care?

Maybe.

He can hear her fiddling with keys outside the door and dread makes him feel like he's falling.

He’s running out of time.

By the time he remembers to call out to Hinata again he’s already gone, passing once more back into memory with the blare of that strange warning in his ears.

**+++**

**"...evel...ive...ector...teen...rantin...inent..."**

**+++**

“It’s okay, we’ll just… we’ll be okay,” he murmured, scratching behind Rakkii’s big soft ears as he buried his face against his neck.

It had seemed so easy when he was leaving the house, but now….

Now he didn’t really know where they were or if he was going the right way or if there was even a right way to go.

He’d never really been anywhere on his own before and the world… the world hadn’t ever seemed quite so big or so scary when he was with Mama or Papa or even when he was seeing it on the TV or out the window of their car.

Everything was just… a lot bigger and busier and louder than he’d thought it would be and the cars went by so _fast_ and he’d gotten splashed twice so his shorts and his shirt and his hair were damp and filthy and he was way too hot, his arms tinged an angry pink by the summer sun.

His head hurt a lot too.

Maybe… maybe he shouldn’t have done this.

Maybe he should just go home, only… he wasn’t really sure which way they’d come and all the streets and houses looked the same here and none of them looked anything like his house which was so, so big and a long way from the road.

This hadn’t been a very good idea at all.

But he couldn’t let Rakkii know that, he didn't want him to be scared.

He gave his neck a last squeeze before drawing back, offering him his best smile and as much cheer as he could muster.

“We’ll be okay. I packed your favorite food and if we go to the country we can steal carrots and things from farmers so we won’t go hungry and we can find a nice barn to sleep in, maybe, or a tent.”

Rakkii smiled back, his tongue lolling out of his mouth to lick a quick stripe across the tip of Nagito’s nose. He wrinkled it, laughing, “Gross, Rakkii.”

Encouraged by his laughter, Rakkii nudged him back out of his crouch to land on his butt on the sidewalk so he flop down on his chest and lick his face. He giggled, pushing his muzzle away and wiping his now slobbery cheek against the sleeve of his shirt, “Knock it off, Rakkii.” 

Another swipe of the tongue and he gave in and rolled over to hide his face in his arms against the sidewalk, still laughing, batting blindly at the muzzle trying to nudge it’s way in around the circle of his arms, nuzzling his hair, intent on licking the salt from his face. “Stop it, it’s not funny. Mama will….”

His laughter died away slowly and his tummy felt sick like it did sometimes when he knew he was going to be in trouble.

Oh.

Right.

He frowned, swallowing hard and barely noticing Rakkii’s plaintive whine as he sat up slowly, staring sightlessly across the road.

That’s right.

It didn’t matter what Mama thought now.

He didn’t have to worry about Mama being mad because he was dirty anymore.

Running away meant no more Mama and no more Papa and no more Sensei hitting his knuckles with the stick and no more Tanaka yelling at him when he tracked mud into the house or ran in the halls or broke things.

Papa and Mama had wanted to send him away.

Away and Rakkii…

They would send Rakkii off to live with some other family and he’d never see him again. He was his friend. His best and only friend. And it made him feel sick and weird to think about the empty space he'd leave behind. He wouldn't mind going away if he could go with Rakkii, but without him... without him seemed scary and awful and sad.

He loved Rakkii.

The idea of never seeing him again... hurt. It hurt so much when he'd heard them say it and so he thought... maybe....

Maybe if he went away on his own with Rakkii… they’d be happy, wouldn’t they? Not to school. He didn't know very much about schools, but he was pretty sure you weren't allowed to have dogs there, probably, especially not at the sort you went to Iive at. Except maybe at magic school like the one on the tv, but that wasn't really a proper school and even there you couldn't have dogs...just cats and rats and birds and things. But he could go somewhere else, somewhere far away and it was the away part that probably really mattered anyway. If he went away, that would make them happy and he could be happy with Rakkii and everything would be okay, wouldn't it?

They could live in the country somewhere and find work on a farm or something. Or maybe they could go to cat island and live there. It seemed like a nice place and Rakki liked cats.

And maybe some day soon Mama and Papa might realize the house was just too quiet without him and they might even miss him a little and come look for him and they could come home. Come home to stay because they wouldn’t want to send them away anymore.

Rakkii panted beside him, nudging his nose against his neck with a plaintive whine.

"It's okay," he whispered though it was more reflex than reassurance.

His throat hurt when he swallowed and his mouh was dry.

It was hot and he hadn’t thought to bring any water.

Oh.

That wasn’t good.

Water was important.

Rakkii liked water and so did he. He liked juice more, but water was good too. Especially on hot days, but it was good on cold ones too. He’d have to…. 

His thoughts were broken by the slamming of a car door and a sudden squeal from across the street.

Oh.

It was a park.

He'd seen them before, but he'd never actually been to one.

He smiled, scratching Rakkii’s neck as he wiped the sting of dripping sweat from his eyes, his mind already spinning with possibilities as he squinted across the street at the kids running up the well-tended path towards the gleam of brightly colored metal in the distance. He’d seen other kids before, but never so _many_ and mostly from a distance or in stores and though there was a swing at home, he’d never been very good at making it move much on his own. He mostly hung over it on his belly and ran it up so he could fly back on it though he usually lost his grip and fell off when it started forward again.

Maybe they could stop there for a little while.

Parks had drinking fountains and they let anyone in so he wouldn’t have to spend the little money he’d brought with him.

The kids were laughing and chasing each other and calling out to each other and _smiling_.

He was pretty sure everyone there was _smiling_.

They all seemed to be having a lot of fun.

He hadn’t even realized he’d stepped off the curb and drifted across the street or that Rakkii wasn’t right beside him until he heard the squeal of tires and that sickening thump.

That pitiful whine that seemed so _loud_.

So loud like it could swallow up the whole world.

And so _short_.

_And then it was so quiet, too quiet with just his heartbeat thundering in his head._

_Ba-bump._

_Bump._

He couldn’t breathe and tears were burning and blurring his vision, but he couldn’t… he couldn’t turn around. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t turn. Couldn’t move. Just stood there frozen in the middle of the road.

Ahead of him… ahead of him kids were playing. Swinging, sliding, smiling, throwing balls and sand and he’d…. he’d just wanted to be a part of that.

He’d just….

He’d just….

Mama was right.

He was….

Really awful. 

Someone was honking.

Someone was pulling him out of the road, asking his name, gripping his shoulders, shaking him. He felt someone take his wrist.

He hadn’t taken off the bracelet.

He couldn’t undo the clasp by himself.

They’d call his parents.

Not that it mattered.

There was a mass of dirty fur and red, red, red in the middle of the road.

He didn’t even really look like Rakkii anymore.

Not really.

He barely even looked like a dog anymore.

He….

He shuddered as the first sob tore its way free of his chest.

There were hands on him, voices asking if he was okay and he couldn’t… he couldn’t answer at all.

There was a really terrible noise and he couldn’t really hear anything over it.

It was his fault.

It was all his fault.

Hours later he was home again, quiet, numb, tucked into bed by the policeman who’d brought him home because his parents were… he wasn’t sure.

It didn’t matter.

One of the fancy parties, maybe?

He curled in tighter around his knees. 

He was so cold without the weight of Rakkii’s body pressed in against his back.

He was lucky really.

Dog heaven was probably really nice. 

He’d been really selfish.

He couldn’t take care of him, not really. He was just… Rakkii didn’t even like carrots and he’d forgotten to take water or any of his toys. Rakkii probably would have just been really sad and he might have died anyway.

So, maybe… maybe it was lucky he went quickly like that.

Even if had hurt…

It had really sounded like it hurt.

Maybe… maybe he was lucky too.

Now there was…. there was nothing to worry about. He wouldn’t have to worry about what would happen to him when they sent him away. Whether they would really have sent him to live with another family or not or if that was just a thing they would say. They’d never liked him. He got hair all over everything and sometimes he peed on the expensive rugs. Papa had even kicked him once when he’d chewed up one of his shoes. 

He wasn’t even sure why they’d let him keep him in the first place.

He’d been very lucky to have him at all. 

And he… he hadn’t always remembered to hug him when he’d come from lessons or brush his hair like he was supposed and he didn’t give him baths like Mama told him to either so Rakkii… Rakkii was probably happier without him.

He’d liked him.

He’d _really_ liked him, but… maybe he hadn’t deserved him.

So, maybe it was better like this.

Maybe Rakkii was lucky to be free of him.

**+++**

**"....tion...rder:...ector...t..eventee...ntin...nen..."**

**+++**

"Oh, thank you! Yes, yes, of course, I'll find him. I'll help him, you'll see. You won't be disappointed!" She called as she hobbled back across the room to the door.

He heard her pulling it open, heard it fall shut behind her and he finally allowed himself to take a deep, shuddering breath that shifted the pile of blankets he’d hidden himself beneath and sent some of the papers fluttering to the floor.

He could hear her mismatched footsteps fading into the distance, but still he waited. Blood leaked from the scratches on his arm, soaking into and through the papers he’d eventually used to try and clot the wounds, to make sure they didn’t drip and soak into what was left of the mattress and give away his hiding place.

His arm ached and his head hurt from all the tiny, quiet gasps of air he’d been taking while she’d been fumbling around the room.

He could be patient.

He could make it a little bit longer.

He could wait and be still even though the mattress stuffing made his skin sting and itch. Even though the muscles in his legs were cramped and screaming, fuzzy pin and needle pain running through his shoulders, his good arm. He had trusted in his luck to see him through and so far it had. She’d been so close, so terrifyingly close, knelt just inches away from where he had hidden, talking to herself, saying things that made him feel… sick, uncertain. That made something deep down inside his chest burble with hysterical laughter.

He trembled, curling tighter, arm clenched around his stomach as he forced himself to stay still, to wait.

To wait just a little bit more, a little bit longer.

Just long enough to be sure.

He needed to be sure he’d have the time he needed to figure out a way to escape, to go…

_Where?_

He wasn’t sure. Not really. If he was right… if he was right than it’s all the same and if it’s all the same than there is no escape there’s only…

_What?_

_Him?_

_Her?_

No, not her, if he wanted to go to her, to be with her… he could have just stayed put, could have reached back inside that hole and let her tear him apart, maybe. Or he could have just saved himself all this trouble by letting Tsumiki take him to… wherever she wanted to take him. Stripped himself naked and let it happen, let her come inside and carve away all the soft, useless bits she didn’t need, didn’t care for.

But he wasn’t… he didn’t _want_ that.

_Don’t we?_

No, definitely not, definitely….

**+++**

**"...arning...cuation....ector....antin...nent..."**

**+++**

“I’m dying, you know.”

“We’re all dying, you giant drama queen,” she replied, digging beneath his bed, pitching the things she found there over her shoulder. Mostly books, some spunk-covered tissues, a stuffed bear.

She paused with the bear in hand, “Seriously, what the hell is this?”

He shrugged, looking away from the offending object, “It’s a bear.”

“Yes, I can see that it’s a _bear_ , smartass. I meant, what the hell happened to it? Did you light it on fire?”

He hadn’t meant to bring it, but there had been people to pack up his things and send them on to the school and they’d just packed most of what was left in his room. The things he hadn’t destroyed. Sehnsucht had been one of them though he couldn’t imagine why. She certainly wasn’t much to look at. If he’d been a packer, he’d have definitely tossed her in the bin. Perhaps the packer had been the sentimental sort. Who could say?

He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t just thrown it out himself.

“He was tucked into bed with me when I woke up the morning after the crash. He probably belonged to one of the other kids on the plane and they just assumed he was mine for some reason, I don’t know. I suppose some well-meaning emergency worker thought I could do with a friend so I woke up with fifteen stitches, a few broken bones and that. I’ve been meaning to throw it away.”

“No,” Junko squealed, hugging the offending thing to her chest. He winced as it crinkled in her grasp, leaving little black soot stains against the white of her sweater. “It’s perfect! Can I have it?”

He shrugged, “I guess. Why?”

“Oh, no reason, I just like the look of it, don’t you?” She grinned as she danced the partially blackened white bear up across the edge of the bed. “Don’t you see it, Nagito? Isn’t it amazing? All this black corruption consuming the pure white innocence of a child’s plaything? Could anything,  _anything,_  be a more perfect representation of despair?”

He frowned, sighing, “I’ve changed my mind. Give it back.”

He really should have known it was a despair thing. It was almost _always_ a despair thing.

“No way! You gave it to _me_! No take backs,” she replied, springing up and racing from the room, leaving only her laugh and a disorderly mess in her wake.

He sat up suddenly, erupting from beneath the mess of damp blankets and pillows, fighting free of the sheets, the trappings of memory clinging to him like spider webs.

It was getting worse.

It was getting worse and worse and worse.

Before he hadn’t… he hadn’t been able to remember anything at all, nothing but vague feelings and ever since Tsumiki had touched him he’d been… like this. And ever since she… those scratches had appeared he hadn’t been able to stem the flow of inconvenient… delusions? Recollections? Some of them felt so real and others… others felt soft and mushy, gritty and rough, like applesauce.

No, it had started before that, hadn’t it?

It had started the moment he’d left Hinata behind and stumbled away into the dark.

No, even before that.

In the diner?

In the warm dark of the beach house?

In the water?

On the bridge?

On the beach?

In Hinata’s cabin?

In that close, dark space that had marked the beginning of all... this?

Somewhere in between?

Or maybe he’d always, always been remembering things in bits and pieces? Little scraps that came and went, slipping away almost the moment he’d begun to grasp them, what they meant, who he’d been… who he was  _becoming_.

Did it even matter?

They were sticking now- those little chunks of memory- gumming up the works, making it impossible to take a  _breath_ , to think, making his chest tight with something like anticipation. 

It had just been those little things at first, things he should have known, should have always known. Just places he’d been, things he’d done. The hospitals, his parents, the crash, the days after, sympathy and reporters sneaking into his room while he slept, the way it had felt to be shoved in that garbage bag, the suffocating weight of it.

He remembered vomiting across his knees because the smell had been so bad, rancid sour milk and rotting meat, the sickening sweet of spoiled fruit. It had been so hot and he’d felt things moving with him in the dark, wriggling against his skin and he’d screamed and screamed until someone had come and hit him to shut him up.

That had been lucky.

He’d been knocked unconscious. He might have died in that bag if he’d kept screaming that way and even if he hadn’t they might not have opened the bag to make sure he was still alive and he might have suffocated.

He remembered waking up, his head sticky with blood, lying on an oil-stained tarp in a warehouse. He could still feel things wriggling against his hands, up his sleeves, he was still half in the trashbag since they’d only bothered to rip it open enough to check his head wound, to make sure he wasn’t dead or dying, maybe.

That was so…  _lucky_.

**+++**

**"...rning...cuatio...der...ector...rant...inent..."**

**+++**

He was on the bed again, rain splattered against his face by a particularly violent gust of wind. He could still feel things crawling on his skin, under his skin.

It wasn’t real.

He knew it wasn’t real, but he didn’t look.

Couldn’t look. 

Because he might be wrong and they might be there, he might see those fat, little white bodies spilling from his veins, little bumps inching along beneath his flesh. Might be able to feel them if he touched his fingers against his forearms.

He choked back something that felt like a sob.  
  
Why was he… why was he _like_  this?

He didn’t want to know, didn’t care, at all.

Why should he?

What was the point?

He just….

Pain burst behind his eyes, choking a cry from his throat as he clawed uselessly at the sheets with his good hand and flailed pathetically with the bad one in an attempt to cover the sound, muffle it so she wouldn’t hear, wouldn’t come back and find him there.

_You can’t escape your own head, you know._

“Stop it,” he sobbed, face buried against the wet sheet as the memory faded to something less real, something almost bearable as it tucked in beside all the rest. 

Who he had been, where he had been, what he had done… wasn’t it better not to know? Wasn’t it better if he never had to know the despair he’d brought the world? Wasn’t it better if he never had to know anything?

_Is it?_

**+++**

**"Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent."**

**+++**

“What is the most important quality in a leader?”

“Talent.”

“What is the most vital resource in the world?”

“Talent.”

“How does one cultivate talent?”

“Talent can not be cultivated. Talent must be born, nurtured, valued.”

“What will save this hopeless world?”

“Talent.”

“Very good. You may return to your room. You will be retrieved for supper in thirty-seven minutes. You may not sleep. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Kamukura Izuru lied, his hands tightening into fists at his sides.

The door slid closed behind him and he was left in darkness.

His room was small, cramped, but there was enough room to sit down if he pulled his knees up tight against his chest.

“Talent is born, not learned,” he whispered against the rough canvas of his pants. “Those born without Talent are worthless. They are jealous and they are vain and they are cruel.”

**+++**

**"...uation...order...vel...ector...quarantine...inent..."**

**+++**

He would have vomited if he’d had anything left to vomit, instead he heaved the ghost of sharp, bitter bile against the cold tiles of the floor, shivering and trembling as he knelt before the black nothing of the ventilation shaft, pieces of blood-stained fluff caught between the fingers of his good hand.

Outside thunder crashed and the wind blew another spattering of cold water across his bare legs and ass, he shivered harder, choking back a scream as he went back to shoving fluff as deep into the hole as he could manage.

That wasn’t his memory.

It wasn’t his.

Wasn’t his.

_Wasn’t._

And yet he remembered what it felt like to be shut away in that little cupboard, the strange hollowness where fear or anger or resentment should have been.

How wrong it had seemed, like he was constantly grasping for something that should have been there, unable to stop reaching for it, as if he were always, always in search of some echo, some ghost of a feeling, but all he ever found were dead ends and hollow spaces.

He was talented.

He could do anything.

He could be anything, but there was no joy in it, no wonder. He understood what those things were, understood how they were defined, how they looked on the faces of others, but he couldn’t… couldn’t find anything to match them within himself. 

He was hollow.

Talented, but hollow, more puppet than person, more doll than human.

Everything was… boring.

And so was he.

Everything was just the same. It didn’t matter if he was sitting his lessons or shut away in that uncomfortable space like a toy being put away for the evening.

It was all the same.

Had always been the same. Meaningless. Empty.

How was anything supposed to mean anything if everything felt just the same?

And yet it wasn’t… he wasn’t… he didn’t… he didn’t understand why he knew what that felt like.

Emptiness had never bothered him.

For him, emptiness had always seemed a relief.

To Kamukura Izuru, it had only ever been a burden.  
 

**+++**

**"...warning...evac...rder...arantine...imminent..."**

**+++**

He was kneeling on the floor again.

She was scratching and muttering outside the door again.

She was dead and he was dead and Hinata….

He pulled his arm away from his chest, only faintly relieved to note that the scratches had stopped bleeding, had just become another open wound, raw and bloody and static just like the others. It ached just like the others too.

If he touched it would he feel that same awful, seething pain… that same _wrongnes_ s that he’d felt when he’d touched his fingers against the wound in his chest?

Would Hinata touching them be the same too?

He shook those thoughts away, forced himself to take a breath, to blow it out slowly and then take another. Panicking wouldn’t do him any good, wouldn’t make the memories easier to deal, wouldn’t bring Hinata back, wouldn’t get him out of that room. He needed to figure this out. There had to be an answer, had to be, otherwise what was the point?

All games required rules.

She’d taught him that.

“What do you want?” He asked aloud, because it was… easier that way. More like he was having a conversation with a friend instead of talking to himself.

“Out. I want out.”

That question was easy enough at least. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be trapped in this place, he didn’t want to be separated from Hinata, he wanted out. For a start though, he wanted out of this room, out of this hospital.

He could try to get out, get past Tsumiki.

Out.

It was difficult to take a breath and when he finally managed it his breath blew out in a white fog.

When had it gotten so cold?

It had never been cold on the island.

Not that that mattered just… it hadn’t been.

He hadn’t been cold here either.

Not… not before.

She was still knocking on the door, a persistent and unrelenting threat to his peace of mind.

What did she even  _want_?

He had nothing to give her. He had nothing to give anyone anymore, not even his life and yet… and yet….

“What do you want from me?” He yelled, voice breaking halfway through. Of course it didn’t matter anyway since she just kept on as if he hadn’t even spoken.

Just blathering on endlessly outside his door.

“Just shut up! Why won’t you just leave me alone? I don’t want to do this anymore! I don’t want to play anymore! Please just-“

Hinata had been screaming.

Hinata was….

**+++**

**"Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent."**

**+++**

“What is three times three?”

“Nine.”

“What color are ripe strawberries?”

“Red.”

“Given the choice to save a talented adult or a untalented child, who would you choose?”

“I….”

“What is your name?”

“……….Kamukura Izuru.”

“Who is Hinata Hajime?”

“No one.”

“Who am I?”

“Sensei.”

“Why were you born?”

“I don’t know.”

She smiled, slim and tight, but she didn’t look pleased in the slightest. “Put him back in. We’ll try again.”

He doesn't struggle.

Struggling is pointless.

This was what he wanted after all. 

The pod casts a shimmering green light against the pale walls as they hooked him up and helped him to sink into the thick liquid within.

His long, long hair clung to his face and shoulders as he was pressed below the surface and liquid flooded in to choke him.

**+++**

**"...arnin....uation....ctor...arantine.in...ent..."**

**+++**

The first sob was a surprise.

The second seemed inevitable.

His arm ached from the jagged cut of her nails and he couldn’t hear Hinata anymore, but Hinata had been screaming.

Somewhere he was probably atill screaming.

He’d been the only good thing. The only good thing and he was probably… and he just kept remembering all these things and they just  _confused_  him. And every time he was somewhere different like he kept stumbling in and out of existence.

He didn’t understand.

He didn’t understand anything and his head hurt.

His head was full of static and nothing made any  _sense_.

Nothing was going to be okay.

Nothing was  _ever_ going to be okay.

“Please come back,” he whispered, forehead pressed hard against the floor, tears and snot drizzling freely. As if he needed further validation of how revolting he was. “Please, I… I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore. Please, please.  _Please._ ”

A squeal broke the relative silence, sending a bitter chill crawling up his spine, as a cold breeze cut across his bowed back and the storm grew louder, so much louder than it should be.

He sat up with a start, almost falling backwards as he stared at the open window, at the curtains lashing back and forth in the gusting, unsteady wind as rain blewd into the room, splattered against his face.

Thunder rumbled and lightning crashed bright across the sky, almost blinding.

It felt like _hope_.

It also felt like a trap, a cheat, an engraved invitation to disaster.

And as he watched with horror another window crept open, inch by painstaking inch as if drawn by unseen hands and all he felt was horror as they were all opened in turn. Each one squealing the same note of protest, each one stopping at just the same point, a quarter-inch from the top, each somehow worse than the last as the curtains blew and whipped and faltered in perfect sync.

He felt sick.

But he couldn’t help laughing all the same.

His door was blocked so the universe had opened a whole bunch of windows.

He really was _lucky_ , wasn’t he?

“M-Mister Komaeda,” she called. “You should really come out now. It’s time to take your medicine.”

It seemed like she’d said that before.

“Don’t want to,” he replied between giggles, but the protest still felt weak, feeble and familiar on his tongue.

He couldn’t stop staring at the windows.

Wondering at the possibilities, but unable to bring himself to move out of the way so that he wasn’t being constantly bombarded by the spray of icy rainwater.

“H-He’s not here, Mister Komaeda. He was never here. There’s no one here, Mister Komaeda, no one at all, but you and me. No one is coming to save you, to save us, and, even if they were… would you really want that? Aren’t you tired, Mister Komaeda? Aren’t you tired of being lonely and afraid? Aren’t you tired of hoping? Aren't you tired of pretending to be something you're not?”

And he was.

He was so unbelievably tired.

But he knew… or at least he hoped that wasn’t true.

Hinata had been there.

He could still remember the taste of him, the sound of his voice and his screams. There were marks on his arm and they hurt, they ached, but they were as real as the ache in his knees and the cold on his skin and the shirt he wore. They were as real as anything else in this place and if those could be real, why not Hinata? Why did it have to be only the bad things?

He could hope.

He could still hope.

Even if it didn’t come to anything, he could still do that much.

He didn’t want to believe that he wasn’t… anything.

And the more he listened to her wheedle and beg as his wrist ached and his heart raced and the more and more he thought about it, the more and more certain he was that that wasn't what she was really asking.

Not really.

What she was really asking was a much simpler question.

The only question that had ever mattered for any of them, really: “Are you ready to surrender to despair?”

The hole where the grate had once been gaped huge and black like a portal to the darkness of space as the storm continued to rage outside.

He couldn't stop staring at it. Couldn't look away. He thought about the puddle, about dark water made turbulent by the relentless fall of rain. The way it had swallowed Hinata up like a hungry mouth and the sudden surge of panic he'd felt.

Not like this.

He hadn't even thought about it, just plunged in after him, arms sweeping wide, searching for purchase in the muck. Hadn't been surprised when he found him, dragged him free, gasping, into open air. The way that hand had been clinging to his ankle, broken and gross and, looking back, so undeniably _hers_.

He remembered the hand and he wondered.

Wondered what would happen if he stuck his arm back inside the hole in the wall. Would she take his arm? Claw it free and whisk it away? Would he shrink down to nothing and be able to escape that way? Would he crawl through the dark and find himself where Hinata had been? Where he was maybe? Or would it be nothing more than an empty hole, a false hope, nothing more than another dead end to frustrate him.

His arm ached and he pressed it harder against his blood-soaked shirt. At this point it really was more gore than shirt.

Which, come to think of it, was pretty fitting.

“So, now what? What do I do now, Hinata?”

There was no answer, but then he wasn’t really expecting one.

Not really.

Hoping, maybe.

Maybe.

He struggled to his feet and walked unsteadily to the nearest window, leaning his forehead against the glass.

The night was still dark, lit only by the occasional flash of lightning to reveal nothing but the muddy island beyond and the driving rain.

What to do?

Sleeping was out. He was too keyed up, too jittery to doze off even if his arm weren’t throbbing an unforgiving beat through his nerves.

He could kill himself. The grate was sharp enough to do the job, probably, and if not he could always bash his head open against the floor or bite his tongue off and hope to bleed to death. Not the most appealing options, but….

He wanted to see him again.

It felt like he was standing on the cusp of something. That with each new memory things were falling into place, an answer to a question he didn’t know how to ask. Like if he saw him again, if he could touch him again, he would understand. Like there were answers to all his questions lingering just there and Hinata was the final hurdle he had to surmount to reach them, to feel something real against his fingertips. To know what was real and what was fantasy. To know why he was still here. What it all meant or whether it even meant anything at all. Like if he could just… just  _get there_ , he would be able to be… whole. Or himself. Or someone else entirely. Someone better. Or worse. Or just… different.

But he wouldn’t ever get there if he couldn’t at least get past her and away from the hospital.

**+++**

**"....cuation...evel....ctor...teen...arantine...nent...."**

**+++**

“Yes,” he breathed as rain soaked through his shirt, the closed window suddenly open once more, blowing a bitter wind across the bare skin of his thighs, he dropped his hand to shield his cock and balls from the uncomfortable chill.

Or maybe it had always been open.

Or maybe it was still closed.

Or maybe there was no window at all.

“I want to help you, Mister Komaeda, all I’ve ever wanted to do was help. All you have to do is let me in.”

He can hear her talking again, talking, talking, but the door is standing open and there's nobody there.

Nobody anywhere.

He's trapped in box in a room in a building in a box and there's no exit and he's already dead.

No mysteries, no ends, no beginnings. 

No one and nothing and time passes and the lights change and the world isn't what it seems.

He doesn't understand anything at all.

“Hinata… I don’t think I can do this.”

If he thinks about him, he can almost, almost feel him, rough gravel pressed against his cheek, can almost hear him.

_“Don’t be stupid, Komaeda.”_

“I think you’re the stupid one.”

"I'm not the one giving up. I'm coming to find you. I'll always come to find you."

"Why?"

"Because you're..."

The rest is lost to the improbable static of a bad connection.

“I’m sorry, Hinata," he whispers, though he's not sure what he's apologizing for.

_“Apologies should be made on your knees.”_

It's not Hinata's voice, but his own, echoing cool and unfamiliar around him.

There’s an image in his head, fractured but clearing, a faltering image of a Hinata he’s never known. An image of pale, desperate eyes blazing, of an unfamiliar expression on a familiar face and then he's falling.

Down.

Down.

Down.

**+++**

**"...uation...sector...quarantine..."**

**+++**

A hand cupped the back of his head and he heard a soft grunt of pain as the hand was crushed between his head and the edge of the step, the jolt was still painful where his back and butt and legs slammed against the stairs, but not as bad as it would have been if his neck or head had hit the stair directly.

It might have even killed him.

He was really lucky.

He’d been running down those stairs trying to get away, away for those words, from that inevitability, from his own weakness, taking them too fast, too fast to really look, really see, too fast to stop when he’d registered the person in front of him too late. He’d tried to throw himself back and away, but it was too late to avoid the inevitable collision. They’d slammed into each other and he’d been falling, falling back and sliding down, pain lancing through him and it seemed to be everywhere all at once even in the soles of his feet as they’d slammed to a stop by sliding into the far wall of the landing below.

He’d taken to wearing a bulky sweater vest lately under his uniform jacket. It makes it easier to hide the wasted body beneath. Plus, he’s cold all the time so it helps with that too. It cushions his fall, but not by much. He'll have bruises tomorrow.

His ears were ringing and at first he could only hear the volume of the panicked voice in his ear, the words hazy and red and tasting like static.

“…rry… tri… top… I… okay?”

He huffs a laugh, offers a careless smile, as he struggles away from the steps enough to prop himself up on aching elbows before allowing his head to fall back enough to look up into the face of the boy crouched awkwardly over him, fingers still braced behind his head, tangled in his hair. He can’t remember the last time he was anything like okay, isn’t even really sure what that means for him anymore.

What was okay when you were dying?

What was okay when there was no hope left?

But the boy above him didn’t know anything about that and even he had he wouldn’t care. No one would and rightly so. He didn’t deserve to have anyone care about him. Not even strange, clumsy, careless….

“Are you okay? I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” the boy repeated, more slowly and the desperation in his tone made him really look at him for the first time.

_Oh._

His pale eyes are rimmed in red and there’s something about them that felt terribly familiar. It’s not the color or the shape, but it’s something about the look in them. They look as crazed as he feels inside sometimes, wide and frantic, almost feverish. His bottom lip was bleeding freely, blood dripping down to fall unnoticed against the crisp white of his shirt.

“Apologies should be said on your knees,” he murmurs in reply and as soon as he does he realizes that he had meant to say something else and while he’s busy being surprised about it, the boy’s lips split into a wide grin, revealing teeth smeared with blood and he  _laughs_.

He laughs and the familiar sound reaches into his chest to stop his heart.

The boy above him laughs as if he finds nothing and everything amusing, as if he’s losing his grip on sanity, as if he has nothing, deserves nothing and knows it. It’s desolate and terrible and teetering at the edge of an abyss called Despair.

It feels like an echo of his soul caught and complete in a singular sound and it’s so achingly lonely that he couldn’t have moved away even if he’d tried, even if he’d wanted to.

And he  _doesn’t_  want to, not at all 

He’s so… 

Lucky.

"You're..." He begins hesitantly, unsure how it will end, unsure what he wants to say, if he wants to say anything at all.

His stomach is squirming and wriggling like he's swallowed a bowl full of bugs.

He feels him shift, hand still cradling the back of his head as he legs rearrange themselves to kneel between his thighs.

The stranger above him is still laughing, still chuckling, his mouth curved in a strange, weary smile. "I'm so sorry my careless actions have caused you pain."

He reaches up to trace unsteady fingertips over the dark shadows beneath his eyes. "We match," he murmured and the boy's smile goes slack with surprise, a startled exhale puffing against his lips.

When had they gotten so close?

Had he leaned up?

Had he leaned down?

Fingers slide against his cheek, tentative, drawing a line of warmth across his skin. "I guess we do," he replies as his hand falls away. Nagito wonders if he even realizes that his other hand lingers still against his scalp, fingers tugging and pulling at his hair whenever he shifts above him.

"Do you forgive me?" He asks quietly, seriously, as if it matters, as if he truly cares about his answer and he can feel the warmth of that idea tugging at his lips, summoning a crooked smile that feels startlingly real.

When was the last time anyone really seemed to care what he thought?

He doesn’t mean to spoil it.

He doesn’t mean to at all, but he still finds himself leaning forward to catch those serious lips with his own. It's little more than a touch, just a moment of contact, a strange hopeful connection that set his entire body trembling and then the boy is shoving him away with both hands, hard enough that his head bounces off the stairs again.

It hurts.

Because this time there’s nothing there to cushion the blow.

And it's no more than he deserves.

He always pushes too far, wants too much, hopes for better than he deserves.

_Always._

He has no one to blame but himself.

And now he’s the one laughing and it’s a creaking, terrible sound like a rusty gate squealing. He hates his laugh, hoarse and rasping and more cough than anything else because he can’t ever seem to catch his breath fully these days.

He’s not sure why it hurts so much, but he lays back against the steps, staring at the underside of the stairs above and it feels like that pain is going to eat him alive.

_Ah._

Well, it was only to be expected, wasn’t it? After all, who would want to be kissed by someone like him? Wretched and woefully inadequate and quickly approaching his expiration date. He wondered if people could smell it sour and sickeningly sweet stench of something already beginning it spoil. If h'd been able to taste it in even that brief press of lips. It was a wonder anyone even bothered to speak to him at all, much less touch him. It had been presumptuous, ridiculous, impulsive nonsense. He was…

“Did they tell you to do that?” The boy snapped breaking through his thoughts and the suddenness of the accusation chokes the laughter in his throat, but the bitterness of it, the barely leashed rage, lets it fly again.

The very absurdity of the idea that there was some strange kiss conspiracy happening, that anyone would want to loop someone like him into the plot even if there was.

How  _stupid_.

“You… you  _kissed_  me.” The boy accused, as if he were likely to argue the point. As if he might quibble about whether that brief press of lips truly qualified as a kiss at all or maybe just say he was lying or imagining things. “I'm not... I'm not going to change my mind. This is what I _want_. No one's making me do it. I don't want to be satisified with what I have. I want.... this is... I don’t need their  _pity_ or _yours_.”

The boy’s entire face seems to redden with embarrassment, but his cheeks and forehead bear the brunt of the stain with a deep red to match the blood on his lip. He looks so confused that he might have almost felt sorry for him, but there’s no room in him for pity.

There never has been.

“Pity?” He echoed still laughing a little because it’s so… he’s so… broken. He feels broken, like an egg dropped on the floor with all the gooey insides seeping out. But then he's always been this way, always been like this since the very beginning, hasn't he? He's never been worth anything to anyone, not even himself. The only good thing about him was his luck and even that.... even that was....

He'd always had this idea that when you kissed someone... it was like having a conversation, a connection that went beyond words, understanding. Something special. Like even someone like him, someone so unnecessary, so worthless as he, could be....

It was disappointing to discover it wasn't true.

That there was no magic in it really, nothing special at all, that it was just a touch like any other.

That he'd shared his first kiss with some beautiful stranger and it had left him cold, annoyed and just as alone as he'd been to begin with, that the world hadn't changed at all and neither had he.

Frogs could never become princes.

The ordinary could never become extraordinary.

The useless and unwanted would only ever be that.

It had just been… like a bad joke, a poor punchline and he wished he could take it back.

He wished the floor would just open up and swallow him whole.

But it won't.

There were no take backs or do overs.

But... maybe... maybe he could still....

He shoved himself up, ignoring the pain in his back and his hips, the wobbly feeling in his head and leaned forward, crowding into the boy’s space. He can feel his smile widening as the boy scrambles back, expression pinched and uneasy as he trips over his own feet and falls, sprawls across the landing.

"What... what are you doing?"

And just like that his smile is faltering, fading to uncertainty, his stomach queasy again. "Can I kiss you again? Just... I think I did it wrong the first time and I should have asked and I'm sorry I... I don’t want... I'll probably forget it eventually, but I didn't... I don't want my first kiss to just... sorry I'm... I should...."

"Yes."

It's said so softly, so quietly that he thought for a moment that he imagined it, but he's nodding too, expression still so serious, face still so red. And somehow it’s the easiest thing in the world to crawl across the distance between them, to coil a hand in his tie and use it as a handle to draw him up to meet him.

To pause for the barest moment just before their lips touch, "Thank you."

It was only polite after all to thank someone who was doing you a favor.

Kissing wasn't anything special.

Not really.

Nothing worth getting so worked up about anyway, but he still wanted... something. For it to at least be... something more than pain.

More than just a mistake.

Their lips press together, trembling, cut and dry and a little chapped and he's not quite sure what to do next. How he’s supposed to turn the touch into a kiss.

He recalls briefly the artful, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses he’d seen on all those dirty videos, but those kisses had never seemed anything close to real so he lets those images drift away. They feel too much like a lie anyway.

He’s seen people kiss in the halls, sometimes, gentle barely there touches accompanied by blushes and apologies and embarrassment and, for all that those at least seemed like less of a lie. Those touches had spoken of an affection and a tenderness he's never felt, can't even begin to imagine anyone else ever feeling for him, but he could at least understand that they were sincere even if he can’t quite believe they were real.

Instead the only thing that seems real is that foolish notion lingering, unshakable, that lame idea gleaned from all those books he'd read curled up in hospital beds or alone in his dorm. He knows he’s doing it all wrong, everything _wrong_ , because he's wrong and broken and desperate for something to hold onto, something, anything, but there’s still that silly idea that a kiss could strike passion like a match and maybe it wouldn’t matter that he was… that he wasn’t….

He opens his mouth just enough to latch onto the boy’s bottom lip with his teeth, to worry at that plump flesh, widening the cut there, tasting blood, smelling copper hoping at least for a reaction. It lasts a moment, two, too long and he isn't sure what to do. At loose ends and awkward because he'd expected him to push him away at that, to just throw him off again like he had the first time, but he doesn’t.

He _doesn’t._

Instead the most protest he manages is a hand that scrambles at his hip, flailing like a dying, flightless bird as if unsure whether its meant to pull him closer or push him away.

In the end, he’s the one to pull back, staring down at the boy’s open, shell-shocked expression and his bruised, bloody lip from inches away. He knows his own lips and teeth are probably ghastly and smeared with red as well, but he doesn’t care. Words spill out of his mouth, tumbling like dominos and he’s helpless to stop them as they spiral away from him. “I don’t pity you, you know. I don’t even know who you are. You could be anyone, no one. I could be too. I found out I’m dying today so I used up all my pity throwing a party for myself, but you can come if you want. There's room for two and I don't have anyone else to invite.”

“I-“ He begins, expression so open and stunned, but he doesn’t give him a chance to answer, diving in again for another kiss, but this time he’s met halfway, warm lips surging up against his own.

Oh.

Maybe... maybe kisses were something special after all.

It’s still uncomfortable and strange, but it’s better, infinitely better to have lips pressed, wanting, slipping and a little wet against his own.

The kiss tastes strangely sweet, chocolate-flavored desperation, though whose, he’s no longer sure, but it’s pain and desperation and want, want, _want_ and he’s never felt more alive than he does in that moment. His back still aches from the impact with the stairs and he’s certain he can already feel the bruises forming and he knows, in this strange, distant, purposeless way that what he’s doing… what they’re doing… isn’t normal.

Normal people don’t go around kissing total strangers in stairwells. Much less strange boys and definitely not like this, bruised and aching from the fall, fingers bloodless where they’re wrapped up in his tie, his other hand pawing uselessly at his short dark hair, his shoulder, anywhere he can find purchase to pull him in, yank him closer.

He wasn’t normal.

Maybe he never had been.

But it wasn’t as if he didn’t know that.

He’s tried so hard to be something like normal since he arrived at Hope’s Peak and it has brought him nothing he wanted. Nothing but dissatisfaction and loneliness. He’s only made one friend and he… he doesn’t even really  _like_ her and she doesn’t really like him either. He even knows in his more lucid moments that she’s actually probably pretty bad for him, really bad for him maybe, but she’s the only one who doesn’t make him feel… weird or unwanted. And sometimes he knows that she does it for a purpose and most of the time he doesn’t care. Every piece of good luck that’s come his way since he arrived at Hope's Peak has felt empty and tainted and vile until now, until this.

This lucky meeting in a stairwell with a boy willing, eager, to kiss a stranger, another boy even, like he’s the cure for whatever ails him.

He’s not, of course. He’s never been good for anyone, not even himself, but for those few hectic moments, it felt like he _could_ be, maybe, even if it’s just for a little while.

**+++**

**"...vacuation...level...seventeen...minent..."**

**+++**

She places the collar around his neck with gentle hands, smiling as she snaps it into place."There now don't you feel better? Now there's someone to hold your chain."

She tugs the chain and the collar tightens uncomfortably around his throat, body swaying automatically in the direction of the tug to reduce the discomfort. She laugh that soft, strange, purring chuckle she'd been using lately that was more parody than humor.

"He's not a pet, you know," Matsuda commented, boots thumping loudly as they hit the top of his desk. “Neither is the other one. You’ve tossed a lot of dangerous balls in the air and if you’re not careful you’re going to die before you have a chance to execute even half the things you have planned.”

"I know! It’s _exciting_ , isn’t it? Don’t be such a downer, baby, this is our time. You should enjoy it while it lasts. Besides this is for his own good, isn’t it? You said it yourself, didn’t you? He can’t be trusted. He’s unstable, so I’m just doing my part for the civic good.”

“I meant that you should kill him, not put him on a leash,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Don’t blame me when he puts a knife in your back.”

Junko laughed, grinning wildly as looked back down at him, jerking the collar tighter still. “Do you love me, Nagito?”

“Yes,” he replied, more from reflex than any actual feeling, fingers digging beneath the collar to prevent it from tightening further. It was difficult to breathe.

“See? He _loves_ me. What more do you need to know?”

**+++**

**"Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent."**

**+++**  

“Kamukura, right?”

He glanced up at the boy already sliding into the seat across from him, the vinyl squeaking protest as he signaled for the waitress, “Americano, please?”

“Sure, love, won’t be a minute,” she replied, topping off the cup sitting in front of him though he hadn’t asked her to. She’d done so approximately five times in the twenty-three minutes and fourteen seconds since she’d poured the initial cup. He poured in another dash of milk, already vaguely interested in how the taste would have changed this time. It was such a simple thing, but it made all the difference. Kept him from getting bored with the taste.

He liked the dinner. He felt more… normal here than he did anywhere else. People came and went, coins jingled, forks scrapped against plates, spoons clinked against glasses, people coughed or cleared their throats, spoke too loud or too softly, chairs were dragged in and out, the machines whirred, the grill sizzled and smoked. The scents changed from moment to moment, the air quality even changed as people opened the door or smoke hissed in the kitchen. Everything was different, everything was constantly changing from moment to moment. He never got bored in the dinner... or at least not completely.

And now he had an unexpected visitor.

He knew everything of merit about him at a glance, had seen it written in the motion and form of his body when he walked in, but even if he hadn’t he still would have known him. Known him for who he was and what he represented even if he hadn’t been the Foundation’s mascot, trouted out to boost moral, their ultimate symbol of hope.

“What do you want of me, Naegi Makoto?”

“Ah, you already know who I am?”

A child three booths back, dropped a forkful of spaghetti into her lap. “One moment,” he murmured, scooting out of the booth and striding back to catch the hand of the father before it could come down across the child’s cheek.

The father (boring, ordinary, obvious signs of long term alcohol abuse in broken capillaries and redness of face, current usage over the legal limit for operation of motor vehicles based on slurring of speech, looseness of movements) looked up at him with bleary eyes as he slid into the booth beside him, fingers still locked tight around his wrist. Ignoring the man’s protest, he pinched his fingers against nerve points until the man began to squeal.

The girl stared up at him with wide eyes, “Hello, Fujita Aiko, you are exceptionally talented. It is my understanding that you are the best oboe player in the world.”

The girl bit her lip, her shoulders hunching and the fingers of her free hand skittering to the little black case at her side. “I just like to play,” she whispered, voice almost lost beneath the sound of her father’s bleating.

“Yours is a most exceptional talent. The Future Foundation would like to offer you a spot in their program for bright young minds. Your parents will be offered a generous stipend and you will be among a chosen few to enjoy a life of freedom and safety where you shall want for nothing and your talents will be cultivated and appreciated.”

“I…”

“You do not have to answer immediately. Take time to think it over and discuss it with your… parents and then contact this number when you have made your decision.”

He slid a card from his pocket and pushed it across the table with two fingers before turning his attention back to the squirming worm at his side. “You will encourage your daughter to make a decision that will allow her a bright future. You will do nothing to harm her in the meantime. If you do I will come to your home and break this arm in six place. It will be excruciatingly painful and you will thank me on your knees for leaving you with your life”

He released his hold on the man and scooted back out to return to his own booth where Naegi was sipping tentatively out of a tall cup. He didn’t look up as he slid back into the booth, but he could feel the pressure of his attention nonetheless.

“Did the Foundation send you?” He asked finally, sipping his own coffee and grimacing to find it had cooled considerably in his absence. It was unpleasant, but interesting enough that he took a second sip. 

It tasted the same as the first.

Boring.

The waitress moved past them, topping off his cup again even as he was setting it back against the saucer. He lifted it back to his lips, took another sip. A hot spot burnt his tongue before a splash of lukewarm cooled it.

Surprising.

Better.

“No,” Naegi answered finally as he set his cup back down again in the waiting saucer.

They stared at each for long moments.

It was… not quite boring. He couldn’t read him. Not the way he could read others. His talents were obvious, but his intentions were unclear it was… frustrating?

Perhaps.

It made him feel… restless, as if his body wished to stay and go simultaneously. It was a strange, unfamiliar feeling and thus welcome.

“Kamukura Izuru, the repository of talent,” Naegi commented, drawing his gaze to him once more. He spread his hands across the table, palm up, there were kanji there, stark black against the tan of his skin rimmed in white and red. He had heard of Naegi Makoto’s eccentricities in the complaints of his contacts, but he hadn’t ever given them much thought.

“Why?” He asked, interest striking sudden as lightning. It wouldn’t last, but for the moment the writing on Naegi’s skin wasn’t boring.

“They’re what I want to hold on to most,” Naegi answered simply, closing his hands into fists that vanished the characters from sight. “They’re what I fight for, what I want to protect, the reason I’m here.”

He let the words settle over him, but it was difficult to make sense of them. He understood conceptually the idea of affection, but it was not something he had ever felt. The fervor in Naegi’s eyes was as foreign to him as the surface of the moon and just as attainable.

“How many talents do you have?” Naegi asked softly, sympathetically.

He didn't understand that.

Talent was something to be valued, prized, talent was....

He glanced up something like irritation spurring him to speak, “Nineteen. This is in my file.”

Naegi smiled, brief and tight, “Yes, I imagine it is. You're their proudest achievement, after all, I'm sure they'd be perfectly pleased to brag about their great experiment to the symbol of hope. If they were willing to admit you existed at all. After all, you're also their greatest failure, aren't you?"

That restless sensation again.

"That's in my file too."

"But that would mean asking questions and accessing your file probably would have brought me unwanted attention. Besides, I'd rather hear about you from you.”

“Unwanted?”

Things began to click into place, all the little oddities of Naegi’s appearance, his body language, the way he moved, the way his eyes darted across the faces of the diner's patrons, lingering on the one unchanging aspect, the one constant, as she slipped past their table to top off his coffee once more.

"Aren't you tired of living in a cage?" Naegi inquired, leaning closer, his voice pitched low. "Because that's what this is. You'll never find what you're looking for in here."

"What am I looking for?" He asked, fingers clenching on the cup.

That restless feeling _again_.

She would notice soon.

The impact Naegi's continued presence was having on him. 

The next pot would be poisoned. He would need to decide whether to drink it in approximately two minutes and thirteen seconds before not doing so will cause alarm.

She’ll hit the panic button.

He’ll have fifteen seconds to decide on a course of action.

Five seconds to execute it.

There are fifty-three ways to escape the diner in the next two minutes.

Thirty-two if he wishes to remain unharmed.

Twenty-five if he wants to avoid the complication of casualties.

Eighteen if he wishes to take Naegi along.

Six if he wants them both to escape without major injury.

Three if he does not make his decision in one minute.

"What they stole from you," Naegi answers taking a sip from his cup, oblivious to his calculations. "If you help me, I'll help you take it back."

Coming to a decision and deciding on a course of action takes seven seconds.

**+++**

**"Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent."**

**+++**

It feels like he’s finally going mad in the best possible way, like someone has turned them both upside down and shaken them until all the good sense has fallen out and been crushed between them by groping hands and the slip of lips turned gentle by acceptance.

The thought makes him laugh and the boy makes the strangest noise, like a croaking cartoon frog being squished under a steamroller, and it should be the least attractive thing ever, but it  _isn’t_. Instead it’s like he’s mainlined that sound straight to the pleasure center of his brain as his stomach whirls with scorching unfamiliar heat.

Or maybe he’s just that weird because that startled, squawking squish of sound and his own laughter means they both have their mouths open, just a little bit, and he’s seen enough porn to know that tongues are usually involved in this sort of thing so he shoves his tongue into his mouth.

He gets bitten for his trouble.

Blood again, wet copper familiarity, and he draws back, panting and breathless.

The boy’s eyes are like moons and planets shifting, wide and bright and pale and dark all at once and he’s panting too like he’s been running a race. Or maybe they've been running a race together because he can't seem to catch his breath and the world around them seems bright and indistinct like it's going by too fast or they are.

“Who are you? Are you even real?” He asks and Nagito can’t help but laugh again, falling back against the steps and whimpering a little as pain spikes at the impact.

“Why? Do you see things too?” He asks and he meant it to be a joke or mostly a joke, but the boy looks so twitchy and unsettled by the comment that he knows he’s hit the mark without even trying.

_Lucky._

He was really lucky, wasn’t he?

"Crazy,” the boy whispers, but he’s already leaning down as if drawn by gravity and he’s not sure which of them he’s referring to, isn’t even sure if  _he_  knows.

This time when their lips meet he's the one who slips his tongue tentatively into his waiting mouth. So cautiously, as if he's expecting the earlier favor to be returned in kind, but is willing to take the chance. The temptation is there, but it's easy to ignore, because it’s wet and warm and weird, but really kind of nice too like this.

He spreads his legs, reaching for jacket clad shoulders and pulling him in, urging him to settle closer against him, between his thighs, opening his mouth wider instead.

He wasn’t normal and he’d never be normal.

Maybe that was lucky too.

Maybe he’s sick and he’s depraved and his luck… his luck brought him someone to take his mind off of his body’s collapse.

Someone beautiful who surges against him as if he were a river on the verge of overflow and the touch of his lips broke the barrier holding it back. He’s frantic with the need for more, more, _more_ than this, fingers curling and clawing at the back of his uniform jacket, snatching at it to bring them closer, to bring their bodies together and the boy groans into his mouth, tongue flailing awkward and uncertain against his own and he sucks at it, encouraged by the little panting grunts the boy makes.

And the most miraculous, hopeful thing about it is that he’s somehow found the perfect partner. Someone willing to meet him with equal fervor. Like this is their last night on Earth, the last moments before annihilation and they both just… need… someone, something,  _anything_  to ground them and pull them through the horror, to make the end easier to take.

It isn’t personal, not really, and it _is_ all at once. It’s like if they can just stay in this moment, if they can just keep going a little more, a little further, than the all the awful things won’t be able to touch them anymore. That they can finally be safe and warm and wanted and that can be enough.

They can be enough.

Even if it’s only for a little while.

Fingers are digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises in their wake and he doesn’t mind, he’s glad even, because he knows this can’t last, won’t, that this is a waking dream and any moment something will happen to send them spinning apart and he’ll be left alone and bereft in the aftermath wondering if it was real, if anything was.

Wondering it was just another useless imagining of a mind riddled with disease.

He drops a hand down between them to press and rub against the ache in his pants and finds he isn’t the only one to have done so.

Their hands and fingers bump and it’s funny, and maybe a little pathetic, that they didn’t think to touch each other, just themselves.

They break away and there’s already an apology on the tip of tongue, fighting for dominance with an embarrassed laugh as he drops his head back against the step so he can stare up at drowsy eyes and swollen lips.

“Sorry,” the boy says, beating him to the punch. “I just…” he trails off, red-faced, clearly at a loss and…

He’s beautiful.

He's just so....

He couldn't help smiling up at him, blurting out: “I like you.”

“You don’t know me,” he scoffed immediately, as if the idea of being liked were completely absurd. “You wouldn’t like me if you knew me. I’m not-“

“You wouldn’t like me if you knew me either. No one does,” he cut in, laughing and glancing away at the wall.

It was white and covered with scuff marks.

Had someone been kicking it?

“I would, I do,” the boy replied, quickly, seriously. “And I do know you or... I know who you are anyway. You’re Komaeda Nagito.”

His smile felt like it had frozen in place on his face, because this couldn’t be… he wasn’t….

“I really admire your talent,” he finished, almost mumbling the last, face turning an even brighter red with embarrassment as he looked away. "You're lucky, right?"

“I’m not lucky, I’m going to die,” he can hear himself saying all in a rush, though he can’t feel his lips moving at all. Everything feels numb, everything but the ache between his legs and the rioting pain that feels as if it has ruptured his chest, broken him open like a rotting piñata, like his intestines should be spilling down the steps across this stranger’s lap instead of just the ugly truth of his situation. His fingers scramble at the front of his crisp, white shirt, though he isn’t sure what he’s searching for, what he hopes to find.

Maybe he’s just scrambling for hope, for a silver lining, for a up side to it, but in that moment there’s nothing, nothing at all, just emptiness.

He was going to die.

He wasn’t lucky at all.

Maybe he never had been.

“Me too. It’s the only way I can be the person I want to be,” the boy laughs again and it’s a sound like glass breaking and those words might as well be spoken in another language for as much as he can understand of them.

But, at the very least, he finally thinks he understands the desperation in the grip of his fingers. Fingers that are pressing so hard against his hip that it feels like they’re going to punch through his skin and drill into the muscle beneath.

He’s nobody.

He’s just… ordinary.

White shirt.

Dark jacket.

The reserve class.

Right.

Just a member of the reserve class, nothing special at all.

Except….

Except that grip against his hip is still strangely cathartic, as if that pressure is allowing the despair inside to seep out into open air, allowing that heaviness to drain away. He can understand the way the boy lingers above him, staring at his lips as if they hold answers to questions he hasn’t asked as he laughs and laughs.

He’s not sure why he didn’t realize before. Why it took so long to recognize the uniform for what it was.

Well, no, that wasn’t quite true… maybe he had known all along and he just hadn’t cared.

He still didn’t really care.

Maybe he would later, but for now… for now he liked him.

He just... liked him.

“What’s your name?”

“Oh, I’m…” his eyes looked distant for a moment as if it was a more difficult question than it seemed. “I’m-“

He lifts a hand to drag uncertain fingers across the front of the boy’s slacks, tracing tentative invitation across the fading memory of desire he finds there, startling a sharp inhale out of him and losing whatever he might have said to surprise.

He leaned up to kiss the suggestion of a name from his lips. 

It was probably a bad idea.

Sometimes he just does things and he can’t bring himself to stop.

He gets hurt a lot, doing those things.

This wasn’t one of those things.

Whoever he was, he liked him.

Even if he was just an ordinary, boring nobody from the reserve class, he was still the first person to ever say that to him with any sincerity.

That made him special, didn't it?

More special than anyone maybe.

Even if it's only for a moment.

He kisses him for a thousand different reasons, but they all amount to the same thing: he wants to.

He just… wants to.

And he kisses him back immediately, bringing hands to rest against his cheeks, to cradle his face like there’s nothing and no one else in the world.

Like he wants to crawl inside him and never leave and no one….

No one has ever wanted anything like that from him before, no one has ever just wanted him for… for anything really, ever.

He welcomes the invasion, desire catching like wildfire in his veins, fingers bracing the jerk of hips, rising to meet the first tentative thrust and the second, rubbing eager over soft fabric and the quickly reemerging evidence of interest beneath.

There was a right way to do this, probably, maybe, but he couldn’t think of it. Couldn’t think of anything but touching him, not stopping, not until his hand is snatched out of the way, slammed down against the stair and hips fall against his own and the sound that claws it’s way from his throat feels loud and shrill enough to shatter glass, a sob that seems to echo around him like it will never stop, never fade.

He whimpers a broken plea into the air between them, "P-please don't stop."

Or maybe he only imagines he does, because the only response he receives are soft grunts of effort and that frantic press of friction and pressure that's never quite enough to tip him over the edge.

Somewhere far away a door opens and panic chokes him to silence.

The clatter of hurried footsteps on the stairs and they were going to ruin it, ruin everything, and he doesn't want to stop.

Not when he's so....

Just another minute, two, ten would be enough.

Just a little longer.

Just...

It shouldn't be a surprise when he hears a heel break, hears a panicked cry ring out, followed by a series of uneven thumps as that someone tumbled down the steps to land with a sickening crack before falling to silence.

It shouldn't have been a surprise, but somehow it always was.

Lucky.

He'd always been... lucky.

"Was that...?" He murmured, panting as he broke away, lips red and swollen from kissing, the cut on his lip still a ragged bloody wound. He blinks sleepy eyes and Nagito shakes his head quickly, threading fingers in his hair to draw him back down.

"Just... ignore it. They'll be fine," he whispered with a confidence he didn't truly feel, a smile that felt as brittle as glass. "It's just my luck. They'll wake up after we're gone."

The boy smiled down at him, soft and almost fond, "You're a terrible liar."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, I really do," he replied touching his fingers against his cheek, smearing the damp he found there. "It's okay. Let's go check on them."

**+++**

**"...warning...order...sector...rantine..."**

**+++**

He wakes again, hips jerking against the bed as pleasure snaps his spine stiff and spits an aborted scream against the numb of the wrist he’s holding between his teeth. He comes with that memory shattering to pieces around him.

Hinata...

That was....

Was any of it real?

Did it _matter_?

His hips jerked and he whimpered in the aftermath, biting hard against that wrist until he tasted blood and still felt nothing.

Blood again.

Always.

Blood in his mouth, on his hands, in his head, a hole in his chest and in his hands and across his thighs, staining Hinata’s shirt, making it as filthy as the rest of him. Blood everywhere and nowhere and the storm raging outside and inside too.

**+++**

**"...warnin...uation...evel...five...t...uarantine...mmin..."**

**+++**

He's laughing as he uses the chain that dangles from the collar around his neck to choke the woman in his arms.

No, not woman.

Girl.

Just a girl with thin pale hands that strike helplessly against his forearms, nails catching, snagged at the weave of his sweater.

Who was she?

What had she done?

Something? Nothing?

He should probably stop and find out.

Too late.

He can't hold her weight and she slips from his grasp to sprawl across the bloodstained concrete.

Oops.

Awkward.

**+++**

**"Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent."**

**+++**

"You're not supposed to be here," the guard commented glaring down at him, with cold eyes. "How'd you get in here?"

"He's with me," Nagito murmured, shuffling smoothly between them. He didn't like the tall security guard, didn't like the way he looked at him, at them, as if they were all... disappointing or dangerous or... something. "You should probably carry her to the infirmary, right? It's dangerous. She might have a concussion or something."

"Yeah, fine, you get your ass back to your own side and don't let me catch you here again, got it? Otherwise you're gonna be the one with a freaking concussion." He snarled, jabbing a finger at the boy behind him and shooting him a last lingering glare before hauling Tsumiki up over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and stomping down the stairs towards the Nurse's office.

"You didn't have to do that. He's right, I'm not supposed to be here."

Nagito shrugged carelessly, turning too quickly and staggering as his head kept spinning, sending him careening towards the steps. He was pleasantly surprised when hands closed over his shoulders to steady him, keep him upright and safe. "I'm glad you are," he answered easily, smiling as red swept over his face. He wondered if he always blushed so easily or if it was just for him.

"S-shut up," he replied, uneasily, hunching his shoulders. "I-I should go anyway. I'm already late."

"Oh, okay," Nagito murmured disappointment heavy in his stomach.

"Can I see you again, I mean... I..." He paused as if debating how much to say or what to say or how to say it. "I... I might not be the same next time," he offered cautiously. "But... let's meet again, okay?"

He stares at the hand offered to him and he realizes that this is the second time someone has offered him their hand, but somehow... it feels completely different.

"I might not remember you," he warns, voice heavy with unspoken apology.

"That's okay, I might not remember you either, but let's... let's pretend we will, okay? Maybe if we hope for it, it'll happen. Do you think that's how it works?"

"Well, I am lucky," he replied sliding their fingers together. "And it would be nice to have something to hope for even if it is just...."

He shrugged, unsure how to quantify a handful of stolen moments that were already taking on a dreamlike fluffiness in his memory. Even the aches and pains of their fall on the stairs seemed distant and unreal, like they'd happened to someone else.

"Yeah, I think so too." He replied fingers gripping so tight around his own for a moment that he found himself swaying into him, close, so close.

Close enough to kiss and so he does and this time...

This time....

**+++**

**"...vacuatio...der...ector...rant...ent..."**

**+++**

“I just really, really love her, you know?” Tsumiki murmured, sniffling as she released the last of the straps that held him to the bed. “I-I don’t know what to do without her.”

He laughed, staring up at the ceiling, at that brown water stain in the corner that looked a lot like an anteater being mounted by a kangaroo, “She never loved you, you know. You were just a convenience. A lever, a button, a trigger. That’s all you ever were. That's all any of us ever were.”

“You’re a liar. Everyone knows you’re a liar. She knew you were a liar. That’s why she had me help you. Make you better.”

“…Better?” He murmured unable to attach any meaning to those words.

She nodded quickly, enthusiastically, "You were so lucky to have me to take care of you then and now. You wouldn't be who you are today without my help, you know."

He still didn't understand, didn't understand anything. His head hurt, his arm ached, “When I get out of this restraints. I’ll be sure to repay your kindness."

**+++**

**"Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent."**

**+++**

If Hinata was real…  
  
If Hinata was real…

If Hinata was real than he… he wasn’t, was he?

He tried to think back over everything Hinata had said, every last detail, all the things he’d half-remembered and everything, everything came back to the machine, to the simulation and he… there was... something... something... something at the edge of his brain just out of reach if he could just....

“You don’t have to think about it, you know,” the shadow kneeling beside the bed whispered, trailing cold dead fingers across his damp cheek.

“I….”

He shrugged, his eyes a swirling pool of violence and despair, “You could just stay here, like this. Remain here, like this. Everything can just stay like this forever. No tomorrows. No future. Death, sure, eventually, but by the time that happens you won’t even care. You won’t even be you anymore. You’ll be her or you’ll be no one at all. A twitching viscous puddle, a useless sack of skin and no one left to care. Do you really think he’ll come for you? Fight for you? No one else ever has. No one else, not even your parents, not even _her_. There’s never been anyone who has cared who you are or what you can do or whether you live or die. It would have been more convenient for everyone if you hadn’t ever been born at all. So, why don’t you just die already? Just let go. Isn’t it time? Isn’t it past time? Aren’t you tired?”

And he was.

Tired.

Spent.

He was… 

Done.

It wasn’t….

“So?” He asked, clicking his tongue impatiently. “Made a decision yet? Tick, tock, it’s almost four o’clock and you’re running out of time.”

“Decision?”

“Sure. Stay or go? Hope or despair? Me or you?” A hand touched his face and he blinked, surprised to find it was his own, that the shadow that had been looming over him was gone… if it had ever been there at all. “Tick, tock, time’s running out. It’s a simple question, you know: who are you?”

Who? 

Who was he? 

“Hey, Komaeda.” 

He was so cold and his mouth was so wet and his eyes felt remarkably refreshed, they didn’t ache or itch at all. He could barely keep them closed and Hinata was looming over him, fingers caught in his hair. His fingers seemed so warm against his frozen skin, so unpleasant. 

He was in the hospital bed and the robe was comfortable, so pleasantly dry and smooth as silk and Hinata’s fingers were in his hair, rough and painful.

“Why do I have to worry about someone like you? You’re just the worst, making everyone worry about you like this. It would be a lot of trouble for me if you died. So you’d better not do it.”

Something fell against his lips, a sweet taste that lingered on his tongue.

Hinata’s eyes weren’t scared at all.

“So, I’ll just believe you’re going to be fine, okay?”

He turned his face against Hinata’s wrist, mouthing hatred against his skin, because he….

He blinked awake.

The storm was raging and he was soaking wet and shivering.

Oh.

He did, didn’t he?

_“You’re special to me.”_

_Oh._

So that’s what it felt like.

To be  _wanted._

Wanted for more than a moment, for more than a purpose, just… just… for yourself.

He sat back onto his heels, wet and filthy and trembling, but for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, it felt like he could  _breathe_.

He stared down dumbly at the space where his hand used to be.

Where her hand used to be before that.

At the neatly bandaged stump that was all that was left behind.

In the end, there hadn’t ever really been any choice at all.

He was Komaeda Nagito.

He had done horrible things.

He had done good things too, maybe.

His brain was full of holes.

His heart was full of knots.

But, more than anything else, he was _lucky_.

After all, he’d finally found something to hope for besides hope, besides despair.

“She wants him.”

“She does.”

“She’ll use me to get to him.”

“She will.”

“He doesn’t know.”

“I think you could fill a bunch of books with all the things he doesn’t know. He’s dreadfully dull.”

“But I love that part of him.”

“Do you?” 

“And I hate it too.”

"Well, you're stupid like that."

He was so tired.

Tired of fighting and tired of running and tired of… everything.

He just wanted.... 

What did he want?

Why did he keep moving? Keep running? Keep living all this time? Why did he keep hoping? Why couldn’t he stop thinking about the panic in Hinata’s voice?

What did he want?

Hope?

Despair?

To give up?

To stop? 

Or did he want…

He remembered standing in the beach house, the warm rasp of Hinata’s breath against his ear.

That word.

_Special._

Leaping off a bridge with his arms wrapped around him.

That’s right.

_That._

_That_ was what he wanted. 

Hinata Hajime.

Kamukura Izuru.

Whoever he was.

He wanted to see him again.

He was Komaeda Nagito and he wanted a _chance_.

To know the truth behind who he’d been and who he was and who he’d be now that all those discordant notes were finally, finally coming together to form something new and different than anything that had been there before.

To find out who he really was now… no... who _they_ really were.

Now.

To see if they could figure out a way to meet somewhere in the middle, somewhere between hope and despair.

That… was such a ridiculously hopeful thought.

It was... nice.

“Are you sure?” The fading voice asked, tremulous. “He might not want anything to do with you.”

“I hope he does,” he laughed, hooking wet hair behind his ears with his good hand. "And that's enough for me."

He crawled to the window and leaned out, squinting down the side of the building. There was a ladder there, rusty and highly suspect, but it wasn’t as if he was lousy with options.

He clamored up onto the windowsill with difficulty, bracing against the side of the window with his arm so he could grip the sill with his hand. No matter how careful, he’d still have to jump to make the grab and hope he had enough upper body strength to manage.

He was drenched and freezing and there was really no point in waiting so he pushed off, stomach leaping into his throat as he fell, fingers catching and slipping across the rungs, arm banging against one rung and then another, feet bumping and slipping until he finally managed to find painful purchase in the bend of his elbow and the arch of one foot.

“Told you I was lucky,” he breathed, gripping the next rung down with his hand and wincing as he set his other foot against the cold metal and began the slow trip down the ladder. It probably felt like it took longer than it actually but, in the end, he'd probably never know for sure. However long it took there was never any sign of her up above or down below. There was only the storm and his own panting, gasping grunts of effort.

Eventually, he set bare feet down in a puddle, toes squishing into the loose mud beneath the surface. He took a breath and looked around. The rain was still coming down as hard as ever and the world seemed thick with darkness and there was no lightning to provide additional illumination.

Forcing out a shaky breath, he put the hospital at his back and stepped out into the dark.

He managed to make it three steps before that voice rang out again through the darkness.

“Quarantine Protocol JE-5146 is now in effect.”

Pain shot through his head, static fuzzing the world to green and black and he was falling.

Down.

Down.

Down.

Falling through space between one step and the next, as the ground just ceased to hold him. It was still there, he could see the patchy, rough texture of dirt and asphalt perfectly well in the instant before he passed into it, through it, before the world went completely dark for the briefest of moments and then there's artificial lighting, blindingly bright after the rainy dim of the night, assaulting him seconds before he slammed hard against the tile floor and then there was only pain, blinding and absolute and everywhere all at once.

He must have blacked out, though he wasn’t sure for how long, because when he finally blinked blurry eyes open he’s no longer on the floor and nothing hurts, not really, but… it’s difficult to think. Everything feels... strange, slow, like he's wading through pudding to string one thought to the next.

He opens his mouth to say… something, but it’s so dry that no sound comes out. It feels as if his mouth has been stuffed full of cotton, he can’t quite swallow around the lump in his throat. Panic hits him as he tries to sit up and finds he can barely move his arms, can’t move his legs at all.

Everything is heavy, so heavy and there's the metallic clank and drag of chains echoes through the room when he tries.

“Finally awake, hm?” A familiar stranger’s voice comments, soft and teasing. “I was wondering if maybe she gave you too much or you’d finally outlived your usefulness and been put down like a rabid dog, but I suppose those edicts take precedent even at a time like this.”

“That was a pretty good plan, you know?” She commented leaning down to smile at him and for a moment it was her blond hair, thick and soft, brushing against his chin, her red lips smiling wide enough to fill the world. Wide enough to reveal a mouth full of far too many white, white teeth. “But it really wouldn’t do to let the big fish escape just because we couldn’t hold onto the bait.”

“ _Junko?_ ” He mouths the word, feeling dread pool heavy in his stomach with the shape of each syllable.

The image stuttered and wavered, lines of static noise interrupting the picture as it crackled and spat sparks that stung against his face and throat. It resolved again for just a moment before a screech of sound left him wincing, jerking away from her, chains clattering loud around him.

When he opened his eyes again there was no sign of Junko at all, only Mikan and her uneven hair and her hesitant, lopsided smile. “I’m so glad I was able to finally find you,” she commented, clamoring up on the table with him, her skirt riding up as she threw a knee over him so she could settle over his thighs.

She smiled at him as she reached over pull a little wheeled table closer. It trembled across her lips, “Don’t worry. I’ll have you all fixed up in no time.”

The shine of the scalpel in her hand was blinding as she smiled and tapped the point against the tip of his nose, “Let’s get started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness of the update. There's a long story behind it, it's mostly ridiculous so I'm just going to gloss over most of it and say that I'm back to working on things (although at a slower pace than before as I'm doing a lot of writing/editing on my kindle these days while I heal up). Comments and kudos are always appreciated and if you want a quicker response, feel free to toss comments in my general direction on tumblr. ^_^
> 
>  **Komaeda's Dog:** I went with a briard, because they're super damn cool and a big shaggy sheepdog just seemed to suit him. Again, I make my own fun, sorry. 
> 
> **D3:** Alrighty, so I made some decent guesses that have worked out so far on some fronts with D3 (and some things I was way off the mark on so it's really kind of a wash so far). So, basically, this story is going to end up looking like a hodge podge of canon and non-canon things. I'm probably going to add in the things I like that work for the story as I go along, but I'll try to note those out at the end of each chapter for the curious. So, generally speaking, if you're concerned about spoilers just assume each new chapter will have spoilers up to whatever is the current release for D3 (I'll note it at the top of each chapter) and you should be fine. 
> 
> **Sakakura:** I dig Sakakura, so he gets to be the world's worst security guard in this universe too.


	14. The Walrus and the Carpenter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it was time to talk of many things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oky dokey, so going into this, please bear in mind there will be some minor spoilers for DR3 in the next batch of chapters just FYI. Cheers! And thanks for reading. :)

_“Just because you don't understand it doesn't mean it isn't so.”_  
― Lemony Snicket, The Blank Book

+++  
**DAY THREE**  
-continued- 

The rain continued to fall.

It had been falling for a long time and no time at all.

But this was not how his story began.

When he'd been young, no more than four or five, he'd been caught out in a storm. 

He didn’t remember much about it and very little about what happened before. 

He’d been caught in the storm because he'd found a puppy trapped in a drain and had stayed behind to fish it out.

This is what he remembers:

  * It had taken a really, really long time.
  * It was a tiny pale thing with damp, matted fur.
  * He’d clutched it tight against his chest, sheltering it as best he could from the bitter fall of rain.
  * It had shivered against him as he ran for home.
  * It had been very cold that day.
  * He’d been shivering too.



It had been cold and wet and the wind had been blowing hard enough that it would have whipped his hair and clothes around him if they hadn’t already been soaked through, made heavy with dirt and filthy water, and plastered against his skin.

This is what he remembers:

  * He’d run as fast as he could, but he’d always been a clumsy child.
  * He’d slipped a few times, dashing his knees painfully against the rough sidewalk, but he hadn’t ever quite fallen all the way down.
  * He’d managed to keep his tight grip on the puppy the whole time, so he hadn’t really minded too much.
  * His skinned knees ached, but they would heal.
  * The rain was cold and the wind was colder, but eventually he’d stopped shivering.



A few cars had driven past him as he ran, most were going far too fast on drowning roads, and once or twice he’d thought he might be washed away as they sent waves of water spilling over him.

Still, somehow, he always managed to keep his feet, to emerge gasping on the other side relatively unscathed.

He had gotten all the way home and collapsed across the shelter of the front porch before he’d realized the puppy had stopped shivering at some point.

This is what he remembers:

  * He'd wondered if it had ever really been alive at all.
  * He sat shivering on the dark porch with the limp body clutched is lap and waited for someone to come and let him in.
  * No one had.



He woke up in the hospital. 

This is what he knows:

  * A week had passed.
  * Maybe more.
  * He couldn’t remember.
  * That part wasn’t particularly important.
  * He was lucky to be alive.
  * Or that was what they had told him anyway.



People at the hospital made a point of telling him that they were sorry about his dog.

Constantly.

Every day it seemed someone new had been knocking on his door and poking their head into the room to tell him how sorry they were about his dog.

This is what he knows:

  * He had spent a lot of time wondering about why that was.
  * Whether there was some sort of mandate in place that forced them to do so.
  * Or if they just really liked dogs.
  * Or if they got gold stars for every time they offered the boy in room 213 their sympathies.
  * Or if it was actually some sort of sly, subtle form of bullying.
  * Or if maybe they were just curious how long he would take it before he started throwing things at them.
  * He had never actually thrown anything at them.
  * He had also never stopped forcing a smile and thanking them for their kindness whenever it was offered.
  * He had, however, eventually stopped bothering to tell them that it wasn’t his dog.
  * No one had seemed to hear him anyway.



When he'd first woken up they'd given him jello. 

This is what he knows:

  * The jello had been red and tasted like cough syrup.
  * The woman who had brought him the jello had sat beside his bed as he ate, staring at him expectantly.
  * When he'd finished eating, she'd asked him dozens of questions.
  * He hadn't known the answers to most of them.
  * In the days that followed, lots of other people had come to his room and asked him those same questions again and again.
  * He's still not sure what they had expected him to say differently.
  * He still doesn't think that one cup of cough syrup jello was fair compensation for all the bother.



“What’s your name, sweetie? The people whose house you collapsed at didn’t know so we haven’t been able to call anyone for you.”

“Oh,” he’d replied, soft and discomforted. “Um. Hajime.”

“No, your family name, dear.”

“Oh,” he’d answered again, but this time it was a lie that had tripped off his tongue. “I don’t know.”

The woman had looked both sad and pained, but she’d patted his arm in what he thought was meant to be a comforting manner. “Don’t worry, dear, I’m sure your parents will come for you.”

This is what he knows:

  * They hadn’t.
  * He’d known they wouldn’t.
  * He’d always been a troublesome child.
  * That they’d probably just forgotten him.
  * Whoever they were.
  * Just like he’d forgotten about them.



He’d recovered and been transferred to a place filled with other children, not quite like him, but close enough. They slept in small cramped rooms and ate bland food and were mostly left to their own devices.

It was a cheerful, perfectly benign sort of neglect.

Eventually a couple came and took him home with them.

This is what he knows:

  * They were not his parents, but they wanted to be.
  * Or at least they wanted a son and that was good enough.
  * A child that was young, but not _too_ young.
  * They hadn’t wanted the hassle of a baby.
  * Too much work.
  * They lived in a big house on a big hill in the middle of town.
  * But they did not live there forever.
  * Or even for very long.
  * The next house had been yellow and small.
  * The one after that was blue and far too large.
  * The next house was green and a medium size with a tidy yard, a yellow mailbox and a maple tree out front.
  * The next was white with brown shutters and doors that slid back and forth throughout with a soft whoosh and snapped shut with a quiet click-clack.
  * The next was larger than all the rest; a sprawling monster of a house with big windows and a brass doorknocker with a scary face.



 On and on it went, a dozen different houses in a dozen different places in less than half as many years.

 Each day was much as the last, only the view changed.

 And he stayed much the same throughout.

 He woke and slept and woke again.

 Everything about his life seemed grey, featureless.

They'd moved constantly and eventually he'd learned that forming attachments came at a price, the price of losing, of forgetting. What seemed important one day might mean nothing the next. Friends were pleasant, but never something he longed for, never something he couldn't do without. He lingered on the idea when he'd been small, but time and experience had taught him how little it mattered over and over again.

They'd forget him soon enough and he'd forget them and that would be the end of it, come what may.

In the end, he'd concluded, it was probably because he wasn't actually a terribly memorable person.

He was... ordinary. 

_Boring._

He remembered one of his parents' friends saying so once at a dinner party.

"Well, he's a boring little guy, isn't he?"

"He's quiet at least," his father had replied, ruffling his hair before sending him off to get them more of long-necked bottles from the pantry.

He'd heard that assessment again in the unenthusiastic response of childhood playmates, the children of his parents' friends. Heard it over and over again in the voices of sympathetic mothers who asked 'who?' in response to his name when he called the few friends he'd thought he'd made over the years.

It was the same everywhere they went. 

Again and again.

He was… ordinary.

Boring.

Unremarkable.

Eminently forgettable.

Eventually it occurred to him that ordinary people were not so very different from one another at all, that they might in fact be wholly interchangeable. That Hinata Hajime, being as ordinary and unremarkable as they came, would almost certainly never be special to anyone.

It was the sort of idea that festered, rotted away bits and pieces of who he thought he was, of who he thought he should be until he could barely look at himself in the mirror to fix his hair in the morning. He began keeping it short, tidy, to avoid having to spend too long, because he knew his face, his body, his mind, his soul were no different, no more interesting than any other.

He was boring.

He was just like all the rest. 

He had no doubts about that, none at all.

But he wasn't content with his lot in life.

He was nine when he first heard about it.

That school.

That place that had been specifically reserved for the extraordinary, the talented; a special place reserved for only the most special people. 

For those precious few who were the very best the world had to offer, those who inspired the whole of the world to hope, to dream, to aspire towards a horizon they would never glimpse through their own efforts, towards a goal they could never reach, towards a tomorrow far beyond the imaginings of the ordinary.

And from that moment, it was all he wanted.

The world was flat and grey, featureless, boring, but that place.... that place was _beautiful_.

How could it be anything else?

That place was everything he had ever dreamed of, he couldn't imagine a life in which he did not attend.

If he could be accepted there, if he could be special... he'd never be forgotten, he'd be...

He'd be...

"It is a very special school isn't it, darling?"

"It is. Even being a student in the reserve program has a degree of merit. It's possible that even you might be able to excel in such a program and you certainly wouldn't have to tell them you were in the reserve program when you eventually apply for university. Why I'm quite certain that the name alone would be enough to open doors that would otherwise be closed to you. Why you could be anything, couldn’t you? Anything at all."

Yes, _anything_... Anything, but _that_ , anything but the one thing he most wanted to be anything but _special_.

Talented.

Unique.

Memorable.

Still... he could hope it would be better there at least. 

That _he_ would be better there.

That there he would finally be able to find a place he could belong, a place where he fit.

It didn't matter if he wasn't talented.

If it was there, if it was at Hope's Peak, maybe he could find a way to change himself.

To become someone... _better_.

Either way it was the most he could do and he couldn't help admiring them, those extraordinary people who were nothing at all like him.

Those talented people who had the stars at their fingertips, those who were gifted in ways he never would be.

Nurse, Traditional Dancer, Photographer, Mechanic… the list went on and on.

They all seemed so extraordinary.

Well.

 _Most_ of them seemed extraordinary, at any rate.

He worried at the end of his pen as he looked over this year’s list of extraordinary people, as his gaze lingered on the puff of pale hair and the apologetic smile of Komaeda Nagito.

Lucky student? 

How was _luck_ a talent?

That night he fell asleep dreaming about the possibility of acceptance, the hope of a brighter future.

His name was Hinata Hajime.

And this was not how his story began.

But it was, more or less, how it continued.


	15. Middle of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...Which it was time to talk of many...

_“The essential and defining characteristic of childhood is not the effortless merging of dream and reality, but only alienation. There are no words for childhood's dark turns and exhalations. A wise child recognizes it and submits to the necessary consequences. A child who counts the cost is a child no longer.”_  
\- Stephen King, 'Salem's Lot

+++  
**DAY THREE**  
-continued- 

 

He felt weird. 

Distant and detached like he was more a passive observer rather than the director of the scene.

Like nothing truly belonged to him, not even his body.

Like he wasn’t the least bit necessary.

As if without him this scene would play out in exactly the same way over and over and over again until the end of time.

He's certain he's never been here before.

"Oh," he whispered in a voice that was not his own, breathy and soft with awe.

He'd never been here before, but there was something terribly familiar about it just the same.

His fingers were restless, digging through drawers, groping at bottles and boxes high on the dresser top, tapping them towards the edge with eager fingers and catching them as they fell, slipping them into his pockets or cradling them against his body before carrying them back over to add to the offering pile.

This had happened a long time ago.

The edges of the scene were faded and pockmarked with water stains, bleached white, stained yellow by time and lack of care.

This was not how his story began.

This was not even his story.

He was just going through the motions.

Following a trail of breadcrumbs through the woods.

Action to consequence.

Which was...

_Weird._

It was warm, almost uncomfortably so.

There was the prickle of the beginnings of sweat at his brow as if he had a fever or maybe just the beginnings of one, but his hands were cold.

The suit they’d laid out for him, the suit he'd changed into with such painstaking care, was just a little too tight for kneeling on the floor to be comfortable, but it wasn’t so bad and after a few minutes of bouncing up and down and back and forth, of crawling around and ducking under and stepping over and around, he found he hardly even noticed the tightness anymore at all. 

Besides this was an important experiment, it was worth a little discomfort.

He wasn't sure _why_ exactly it was so important, that part was vague, distant, but he was absolutely certain that it _was_.

Very.

_Important._

And so he pressed on with his task, shuffling forward across the carpet to balance another little ornamental vase atop tower seven.

He was sure it was quite fancy, but for the moment it looked mostly like what a vase might look like when reflected in a funhouse mirror.

He went about his task with a frantic urgency born of a pressing need to see it done, to see through to the conclusion of this idea, this sick feeling in his belly he couldn't quite shake. This need to  _know_.

Know what?

He wasn't sure.

So many things seemed a little foggy, a little vague, a little off as if there were a thousand tiny details missing from the scene.

The dresser was brown and probably made of wood, but it lacked grain and texture. There were no shadows to give it life, depth, to weight it against the carpet or make it stand out against the wall. The bed was worse, a few scattered lines and some wiggly gold waves crisscrossing a mossy green blob. He guessed it was probably supposed to represent the cover, but it looked mostly like scribbles in a poorly drawn coloring book. 

The carpet on which he sat meticulously stacking all those fragile, valuable things, however, was almost hyper realistic. Every shadow, every stain, every fiber seemed larger than life and twice as real. It was thick and soft, so soft that the towers seemed like they should have immediately tumbled over whenever they got more than a few levels high, but they never did.

They just grew higher and higher, wobbling dangerously over him as he worked.

His hands were small and pale and he used them to create increasingly ambitious towers and bridges around himself, built them high and higher, his movements were becoming more frenzied with each new level, his breath coming quick and almost panicked in his chest as he watched glass perfume bottles and fancy pewter jewel cases teeter and sway around him like reeds blown in a brisk breeze.

As each new tower grew higher and higher until he had to stand on tip-toes to slip new bits and bobs on top of each of the piles, so grew his surety that he was right.

His hands were unsteady, shaking with a tremor of excitement at the prospect as he ducked and crawled across the room to retrieve more things from his mother's dresser to add to the proof that he was right.

This idea that had been dancing in his head for weeks and weeks and weeks.

This idea that he couldn't shake.

He'd had it before, lots and lots of times, but he'd been reminded of it earlier when he'd slipped in the bath and in doing so narrowly missed being hit in the head by a falling ceiling tile.

Lucky.

Last week, he'd been playing out on the balcony with one of the maids and it had collapsed beneath them.

He'd fallen in the pool.

She hadn't.

That had been lucky too, hadn't it?

He'd heard them say so as they bundled him in blankets and flashed lights in his eyes.

_Lucky._

He laughed, delighted, as those towers shifted and swayed around him, joy slithering around his heart like a snake, coiled tight and squeezing tighter each time it seemed as if he'd finally built them too high, chanced too much, only to find all those precariously balanced items still stood.

And each time he became a little more confidant that he maybe, just maybe....

He was. 

He  _had_  to be.

_Lucky._

Because if he was lucky... if he was lucky then....

Then he wasn't  _all_  bad. 

If he was lucky than maybe he wasn't  _completely_  worthless. 

Not if he really was  _lucky_.

He couldn't wait to tell them.

To  _show_  them.

If he could show them that there was one good thing about him, even if it was just  _one_ , then maybe they would... maybe....

The glitter of possibility made his chest tight, caught his breath in his chest and it was impossible to focus on anything beyond the moment, beyond the shivering towers that for just that moment represented a reality in which everything could be different, in which  _he_  could be different. 

Then everything was tumbling down around him, bottles crashing to the ground, saved by carpet but crushed by tumbling pewter and bronze and wood, sharp edges catching thin lines of pain across his bare feet and hands.

His cheek ached and his body felt bruised where he’d fallen into the largest most impressive set of towers. A few stragglers remained standing still, a wavering silent testimony to another way he was... no good at all, really, not even in this. 

The world had snapped into vivid surety around him as he lay panting across the ruins of his broken city, eyes stinging as a hand snatched hold of his wrist and yanked him upright to stare wide-eyed into his mother's cool, narrowed gaze.

It is a world that reeks of flowery perfume and failure.

"Nagito, I am _very_ disappointed in you. I do believe that you were told to get ready to go and yet here you are. Playing around. Making a terrible mess and destroying my things. Things I like far more than I like you right now," she commented, nudging one of the broken bottles with her stockinged toe and his stomach plummeted, a fine tremor breaking across his limbs. "Please tell me what part of 'get ready to go' was it precisely that made you think this was appropriate behavior?"

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the apology reflexive on his tongue even before his mind had begun to form the first words of argument. "I  _am_  ready, I was just..."

"I believe I also told you to brush your hair," she murmured, ignoring his words, and he winced, curling away from her reflexively even as her fingers slid into the strands, pulling the short, loose curls out for examination. "Do you want me to have Edwards shave it off for you again?"

"No, Mama," he managed to choke out past lips that had gone stupid and numb.

He hated the buzzing noise the clippers made, how weird his head looked without the fluff of his hair to soften it, how naked he felt after, how much he hated seeing his reflection in the mirror.

It made him think about the hospital.

He didn't want to think about the hospital.

"Then you must care for it properly. Go brush your filthy hair and change your clothes, you've ruined this suit.”

“It isn’t filthy,,” he whispered before he could think better of it. “I just washed it this morning.”

Her head dropped to the side, her expression as blank as paper, as the sky on a cloudless day. “Then you must not have cleaned it properly. I don’t remember giving birth to a ginger-haired interloper who looks nothing like his parents. Do you even understand how many jokes are made at my expense because you look the way you do? What I have to tolerate for your sake? The  _least_  you could do is keep it tidy. Tie it back and wear your wig if you can’t manage to keep it orderly.”

“But Mama, it  _itches_.”

He heard the crack of her hand against his cheek well before he felt the sting of it; well before he realized what had happened or that her fingers were no longer caught in his hair.

He stared at the closet door in the far wall as tears welled up, blurring the world into a mess of color. He knew if he looked closely enough he'd be able to see his fingerprints from where he’d touched the varnish before it had fully dried.

Proof that he belonged here.

Even if sometimes he didn't deserve to.

“Why can’t you just be a good boy and do as I ask? If you were a good boy, I wouldn’t have to- are you  _crying_?” She huffs a sigh as she kneels beside him, catching his chin with her hand and swinging his head back around to face her. “Sweetheart, what have I told you about that?"

"Only babies cry," he whispered as her image swam and blurred before his eyes.

"Exactly. Are you a baby, Nagito?" She asked, infinitely patient, as her fingers released his chin settling her palms against his cheeks instead, cradling his face almost gently. 

"No, Mama."

"Then smile for me, sweetheart."

It hurt.

Smiling hurt and he didn't dare blink, too scared that those tears still blurring his vision would fall.

"Now, isn’t that better? A good smile can make all the difference, you know. No one will ever like you at all if you can’t smile properly, Nagito. Now go wash your face, tidy yourself up and, if you can’t manage that, then put on your best wig. And the blue suit, I think. Wear the blue. I can’t have you seen like this. If you aren’t able to make yourself presentable, you will be sent to your room and you will go to bed hungry. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Go then. I will have Edwards clear up this,” she glanced around at the scattered blocks that had once been proud towering monuments to his talent, “…mess."

"Yes, Mama,” he whispered even though she was already turning away, forgetting about him in favor of contemplating her jewelry box.

His face ached, but he held the smile all the way to the bathroom just in case, stepping carefully into the room and closing the door behind him.

He climbed up on the stool in front of the counter with unsteady legs and paused, staring for a long moment at his reflection. At his wild hair, at his pale skin and flushed cheeks; at his dreary red-rimmed eyes as he finally let the smile fall away.

Mama was right.

No one would ever like him like this.

He smiled again, ignoring the ache, letting false cheer close his eyes.

Maybe if he practiced enough it wouldn't be false anymore.

Or at least no one would be able to tell it was.

Maybe one day he might even fool himself.

And why not?

He was... lucky.

He sucked in a gasp, deep and sudden, like he was surfacing from too long spent underwater and found that the world had gone hazy and uncertain around him. The boy standing by the sink smiling bright and false at his reflection was frozen in place, caught between one moment and the next.

Smiling, still smiling.

He  _knew_  that smile.

Would have known it anywhere even without hearing the name that went with it.

He wanted to touch that smile, force it into a frown, pinch color into those pale cheeks until he laughed or told him to stop, until his expression became something  _real_ , something that didn’t leave him feeling empty and horrible inside.

But he had no hands to reach out with.

Nothing was real here.

Not even him.

This wasn't his story.

This had happened a long time ago.

And the edges of the scene were once more faded and pockmarked with water stains, bleached white, stained yellow by time and lack of care.

Just an image from another time, another place, another life.

No one could change the past.

Not really.

The hazy image of the boy was already becoming difficult to see, the mirror fogging over until white was all he could see.

Until there was nothing left and the world faded into something new and far darker and he was left choking on a sob, reaching out for the ghost of a boy he’d never known.

Or maybe for the reality of the man he'd eventually become.

It didn't matter which, not really, either way his name was a whimper on his lips and he couldn't reach him.

He couldn't touch them, either one.

Instead his fingers scraped rough and painful across damp asphalt and with it came something like reality, emerging from the dark like some great beast breaking the surface of the world and immediately kicking him in the head.

Somewhere far off there was a terrible, gargling moan that scrapped across his nerves and he woke to the merciless thump of a frantic drumbeat in his head. He blinked into wakefulness through a film of tears to find the world filled with an agony that seared through his veins like fire and stole the breath from his lungs. It seemed like his entire body was snarling, burning as he tried to draw a breath that only made him cough, made him choke on the taste of blood in his mouth. The grit of gravel ground loud and painful beneath his gnashing teeth as he shivered violently and tried not to scream. 

He hacked and spit jagged stones across the wet glistening dark of asphalt as he curled his body close and small as if doing so might somehow lesson the pain or at least allow him a brief reprieve from the ache that scorched a trail up his chest and arms.

It didn't.

His head throbbed viciously and the rain fell like bullets, pounding icy cold against sensitive, overheated flesh and there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide from it, nothing to do but endure.

Time passed.

It must have, because that was what time did.

But for a long time, he couldn't think beyond the moment, beyond himself, beyond the ever present beat of rain against his skin.

Then with painstaking slowness the world around him began to reassert itself, to slither back into the field of his awareness an inch at a time. First the grumble of thunder then the buzzing static fizzle of faltering neon. Gradually the pain began to lessen as the chill in the air and the water filling in the space around him began to numb his raw skin, ease the ache in his head. Water rose against the curve of his cheek, deep enough that it splashed up against the part of his lips each time a raindrop landed too near his face. He drifted, exhaustion dragging him back towards sleep as water continued to build up around him, covering his fingertips, lapping against the curve of his stomach as it puddled around him.

That thought stirred something, some lazy realization swimming up from the depths to prod him back towards consciousness.

There’d been a puddle in the hall, hadn’t there?

Deep enough to be a pond, though in the dark it had seemed like a lake, an ocean.

There'd been something there with him.

Something in the dark.

In the water.

Unseen.

The memory of sharp nails digging into his leg, phantom fingers dragging over his stomach is enough to draw an aborted scream from his lungs, enough to force him up past the dull throb of pain and the weight of exhaustion to full awareness. He flailed, startling into action and just managing to shove himself up and over onto his back before the renewed flare of agony sent him flopping back down in the puddle with a groan.

"Fuck," he breathed, wincing and turning his head to the side, away from the rain that splattered in his eyes, pelted sharp and irritating against his face.

He was awake now, for better or for worse, but nothing he saw made any sense at all.

Water covered the parking lot in a soft, greasy sheen that painted the sordid bright of neon across it’s filthy, rippling surface. He flicked his gaze up from the wavering reflection to the too-bright reality of the sign, of the lights flickering bright and vivid even through the steady fall of rain.

The diner.

What the hell was he doing outside the diner?

What had he…?

He pushed himself up slowly, tentatively testing trembling arms, his bruised fingers scrapping and curling against the asphalt in search of purchase. His pants and hair were soaked through, plastered and sticking uncomfortably to his clammy skin as he wobbled into a sitting position.

The neon of the diner seemed to taunt him, flickering pink and red in the darkness, beckoning him to come back inside out of the rain. 

 _Daring_  him.

“Fuck,” he breathed again, running a hand over his face.

Everything was just...

No,  _he_  was just...

_Crazy._

Just completely nuts.

A trill of sudden unexpected laughter shook him as he sat there and he pressed the heel of his hand against his mouth to smother it.

He was losing it.

He was really… losing it.

And who could blame him really? Who could blame any of them?

After everything that had hap- 

_...di..._

After everything that- 

_...lo...g..._

After every- 

_...ad...g..._

After- 

He can’t think, can’t complete a thought and there's a screeching noise in his head, sudden and inescapable, loud enough to eclipse even the constant fall of rain as static fills his head with sand and everything turns white.

-la…hs and the f…liar so… re…s in…o his ch…t to stop his heart.

…laughs as if he finds nothing and everything amusing, as if he’s losing his grip on sanity, as if he has nothing, deserves nothing and knows it. It’s desolate and terrible and teetering at the edge of an abyss called Despair.

It feels like an echo of his soul caught and complete in a singular sound and it’s so achingly lonely that he couldn’t have moved away even if he’d tried, even if he’d wanted to.

And he  _doesn’t_  want to, not at all

He’s so…

Lucky.

So….

So….

There's the strangest sense of vertigo and then he's kneeling above the boy on the stairs and he….

Komaeda Nagito stares up at him like he’s a  _revelation_.

And he can’t stop laughing.

His chest feels tight, his face hot and his hand is aching where it's caught between the boy’s head and the step.

Step.

Stairs… there was something… stairs…?

He’d been walking… no… running?

_Yes._

He’d been dashing up those stairs for….

He'd been here before.

Why had he been here?

There had to have been a reason, right?

This was not how his story began.

But he knew this place.

He  _remembered_  this.

It was just...

There was a reason, wasn't there?

There was something, there was…  _what_?

It was like grasping water, the tighter he tried to hold on to it, the more it seemed to slide formless and wet through his fingers leaving only traces behind. His motivations, his feelings, everything was just a gloopy, unfamiliar stew that was somehow both soothing and revolting simultaneously.

This was not how his story began.

But it was, more or less, how it continued.

He should be able to… he should…

What?

Who was he?

What had he done?

Why?

These were essential questions.

It was necessary to establish these things.

He… he hadn’t been paying attention, not really, too caught up in his own thoughts, his own panic.

He'd heard the door open, heard footsteps pounding hard on the stairs, but he’d thought… he’d thought it might be security, might be… something… someone coming to bring him back and he just needed… he needed… needed… a  _moment_.

To himself,  _away_ , just… just a moment  _alone_ , away, from there, from them.

From the way they stared at him, the way they talked over him, around him, like he wasn’t even  _there_.

Like he wasn't a person.

Like he wasn’t even… he just… wanted a  _moment_.

All he’d been thinking about was escape, about going far away, finding a quiet place to himself and then there’d been a moment, a moment of realization, far too late and he’d seen a blur of pale and then they’d collided.

_Surprise._

He’d been surprised.

It had hurt, but he’d also…

He’d been…

He was…

_Afraid._

He’d seen his eyes widen, heard the startled intake of breath and then they’d been falling and he’d been…

He hadn’t been able to see the impact coming, had been too focused inward, too caught up in the moment, but now…  _now_  he was able to see the fallout, branching out around him, all of it so precariously balanced upon his decisions, his potential.

Spreading vast around a single point, a single name, that caused each thread to shimmer and thrum and glisten with possibility.

Komaeda Nagito.

His name was Komaeda Nagito and he was... lucky.

Lucky, but luck was a fickle talent. It came and went, turned on a dime, turned against you when you least expected it.

He could see blood seeping down the stairs, staining pale hair, once bright eyes gone glassy and vague.

He could see those same eyes staring down at him in surprise as he bled instead, the ache in his skull incredibly intense, all their delicate work put to ruin as he dashed the hopes of all against those steps with a single impulsive decision.

Each path before him was littered with broken limbs, shattered bones, blood, bruises, concussions; a hundred different injuries of varying degrees of severity.

They were both fragile, delicate, at least for this moment.

Komaeda’s luck was difficult to quantify, to factor into calculations, an unknown quantity that set his nerves buzzing with uncertainty.

His own luck was a flower yet to bloom.

He couldn’t depend on luck, couldn’t disregard it, it was a scale teetering precariously between two extremes.

Finally he found and seized upon the optimal path, one that carried them both through the fall with minimal damage and put it to action.

His reflexes were better than they had been, much better, so it was a simple matter to make the necessary adjusts as they fell, tapping Komaeda’s body into position before turning his own, shifting his arm to catch the impact of Komaeda’s head against the palm of his hand. To allow his hand to be crushed between head and step and while it had been painful, had bruised and fractured, it had also been the best of all those myriad possibilities and it was an injury that would heal soon enough.

“You’re…” The word, spoken softly, uncertainly, interrupts his thoughts, summons him back to the moment, draws his attention back to the boy lying beneath him.

He knows him, knows his face, has seen it from a distance a dozen times or more, but he's never seen him this close. And the way he’s looking up at him…

As if he's something... someone....

_Special._

It's nowhere near true, not yet, but it's still... nice.

Warm.

Would this be what it felt like?

To be talented?

To be everyone's hope?

It’s a nice thought.

A  _hopeful_  thought.

He shifted slowly so he could kneel comfortably between the other boy's splayed legs, careful to keep his head cradled against his palm as he moves.

"I'm so sorry my careless actions have caused you pain," he said and he was, but somehow it had still felt like he was teasing him. The words rolling off his tongue as if they were the start of something rather than the end they were meant to be.

Pale fingers reached up to trace the skin beneath his eyes.

It had felt...

When was the last time someone had touched him like that?

Had anyone ever touched him like that?

He couldn't remember.

He couldn't remember so many things lately.

He’d known that was… a possibility, no,  _inevitability_ , but it was still… disconcerting. Every time he walked into that room, every time he stepped into that pod, he lost something else. Every time he closed his eyes another piece of his old, ordinary self would slough away to reveal the vessel of hope they were creating underneath.

It should have made him feel… good.

Better.

Best.

It was progress, wasn’t it?

This was what he wanted.

This was how it was supposed to happen and yet…

And  _yet_ …

The times between... it made him just feel... small and less and….

Broken.

"We match," Komaeda’s soft murmuring voice summoned his meandering thoughts back to the present yet again. To the gentle touch of cool fingers against his face, drawing his attention to the dark circles beneath the pale eyes that were still staring at him as if he were something remarkable.

He was right; they did match in that way.

They both wore the stamp of too many sleepless nights or poor health or both.

When had they gotten so close?

Had he leaned down?

What was he thinking...?

 _Was_  he thinking...?

Was this meeting chance or fate?

Lucky or unlucky?

Did it matter?

It came almost as a surprise when he touched Komaeda's cheek, as if his hand had made the decision to do so independently without bothering to consult him. They were just suddenly there, dark fingers slipping across a pale canvas.

His skin was smooth, cool, beneath his fingertips and the way Komaeda leaned into the touch, almost instinctive, like a flower turning towards the sun made his breath catch in his chest.

He was....

Everything stuttered, color fluctuating and fading around him as the world ground to a halt and he was suddenly the only player left on a frozen stage.

As if he'd been watching a film, a first person narrative of his life that had gotten stuck on this scene, on this final frame and he'd been left to play out the final moments alone. 

And it left him cold, trembling with the loss of something he'd never truly had.

He didn't belong here.

He didn't belong anywhere.

"I guess we do," he heard himself reply as he allowed his hand to fall away.

It was all he could do, really.

He never should have touched him in the first place.

"Do you forgive me?" He asked quietly even though he's not exactly sure what he's asking forgiveness for anymore. It still seems… important to hear the answer even though the image of Komaeda’s face is already faltering, fading, vanishing beneath the sweeping darkness of the night and the endless fall of rain.

It was always raining here.

He was…

He is…

He picked himself up gingerly off the pavement and it felt like he was on autopilot, just stumbling through the motions as he climbed to unsteady feet only to crash back down almost immediately as numb, tingling legs gave way beneath him and dumped him flat on his ass.

He's pretty sure he yelped as his teeth clicked painfully and he caught the weight of it against one hand… the same hand that he’d caught Komaeda’s head with in that…

What?

Memory?

Dream?

Could you even dream when you were already dreaming?

Dreams within dreams?

He snorted, shaking his head at the thought.

How  _tedious_.

How  _boring_.

Boring?

The word startled another laugh out of him and he buried it against his good hand, screaming frustration at the end.

He was so  _tired_  of this.

“Then why don’t you just wake up already, you freaking idiot?” He screamed into the dark of the night, into the raging storm and the rumble of thunder.

He pinched his cheeks hard twisting the aching skin back and forth for good measure even though he knew it wouldn’t do any good.

If nothing else he’d experienced here had been enough to wake him up than surely that wouldn’t either.

His legs tingled painfully and he shifted them, running his hands irritably over his borrowed pants, fingers catching against the bloodstained holes in the fabric.

It was so stupid.

This was all so  _stupid_.

How long had he been lying there that his  _legs_  had fallen asleep?

What the hell was  _wrong_  with him that he was dreaming about his  _legs_  being asleep?

His head hurt, his neck ached and he felt… wrong,  _weird_ … still  _off_  in some fundamental way he couldn’t quite grasp. His feet were covered in soggy gauze and when he rubbed his hands against his jeans to get rid of some of the loose gravel stuck there, he noticed that one of them was wrapped in gauze as well.

It had snagged against something sharp that was embedded in the fabric of his pants.

He stared down at it blankly, at the neat, efficient wrap that covered his hand and most of his arm almost to the elbow. Thick enough to protect from further injury, thin enough not to be a hindrance.

It was the same hand he’d caught against the step.

The same arm that had been grabbed and shredded when he’d stuck it in that stupid vent.

Someone had bandaged his arm.

He didn’t….

He….

-talk too much,” he replied coolly, flipping open the lid and fishing out gauze, tape and alcohol swabs. “I can fix that problem for you if you’d like.”

Enoshima looked unimpressed by the threat, “You do realize that infection is really the least of your worries, right?”

“To the contrary, I’d say it’s actually my largest concern at the moment,” he replied, swabbing the bloody wounds on his hand and feet and wiping away the worst of the blood before slathering the wounds with disinfectant. He unrolled the gauze, wrapping his injured hand with quick, efficient motions before turning his attention to his feet.

Then suddenly there’s a voice.

A voice that seemed to come from somewhere and nowhere and everywhere at once. It shudders and fluctuates with static like a radio station he can’t quite manage to tune in properly.

“…violating protocol… titions… creased… ection… teen point six nine… cent… sist in the... forts… nact… rantine… safety.”

Everything was frozen around him, Enoshima’s hands caught in the air above her condiment structure, the jukebox gone silent and still, even the air seemed stale and motionless.

He sawed the pieces of gauze free with a butter knife, tucking and taping and securing the ends of each neatly in turn.

“Safety? What the… what the hell are you talking about? What… what is this?” He rasped, only a little surprised to find that no sound came out, that his body kept moving regardless, going through the motion of bandaging his wounds it was… it felt… like he was….

“…refuse to sev… manually… will be eject... nine… ght…”

Panic seized him and he scrambled for control, for purchase, for anything and he must have done something right because the action spun up again around him, like a record wobbling into song and it seemed like the whole world released a relieved sigh or maybe that was just him. 

Either way Enoshima was talking again as if nothing had happened.

“A  _virus_  joke, that’s so original, Izuru. I might just die laugh-“

_Izuru._

Time grinds to a halt again and he recoils as the realization of that name hits him with the force of a punch.

His ears were still ringing when he found himself in the parking lot once more.

Or still.

He’s not sure which and his head aches worse than ever.

Izuru.

She’d called him  _Izuru_.

He was….

His breath was coming short and frantic, his heart pounding in time with the ache in his head.

His mouth tastes like pennies and he’s absolutely going to throw up.

He wasn’t  _him_.

He  _wasn’t_. He was…

He was….

He crammed a hand against his mouth as if that might stop the laughter that’s spilling out, like it might be able to still the panic sizzling in his veins.

Who was he?

He wasn’t Hinata Hajime, not really.

He knew that.

He  _knew_  that.

He’d felt it since he’d woken up, that difference, that surety, but it hadn’t… it hadn’t bothered him, had it?

Not really?

It… he didn’t mind not being Hinata Hajime. It had been… okay not to be him. Hadn’t it?

_Hadn’t it?_

But if not him then who?

He couldn’t be Kamakura Izuru either. He wasn’t… he wasn’t a  _monster_.

He wasn’t.

He  _wasn’t_.

He was still himself, wasn't he?

He was still... still...

He was....

How the hell had he gotten out here?

Out where?

Where had he… what...?

For long moments there was suddenly nothing, nothing he could grasp, nothing at all that told the story, any story at all.

He was…

Dreaming.

Who was he?

His name was Hinata Hajime.

Who was Hinata Hajime?

Why was he here?

These were essential questions.

It was necessary to establish these things.

Why was he  _here_?

Where was here?

No, that wasn’t... he just needed to calm down.

To… _focus_.

He was… he….  
  
He _knew_ this.

He knew the answer to this.

He knew this story.

He _did_.

Once he'd woken up in a dark place and he hadn't been alone.

It seemed like something that had happened a very long time ago.

This is what he knows:

  * The rain had been falling for a long time and no time at all.
  * He has forgotten something.
  * It was probably important.
  * This was not how his story began.
  * But it was, more or less, how it continued. 



 


	16. No Birds To Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...It was time to talk of many...

_“I don't know what happened. Disease? War? Social collapse? Or was it just us? The Dead replacing the Living? I guess it's not so important. Once you've arrived at the end of the world, it hardly matters which route you took.”_  
\- Isaac Marion, Warm Bodies

  
**+++**  
**DAY THREE**  
-continued- 

   
The sky was dark and the rain was still falling.

He turned his face up into it and the cold helps wash away some of the doubt that swamps him, helps cool the frantic rush of panic in his veins. 

One breath.

Two.

Three.

He was alone.

It was dark.

The rain was still falling.

It had been falling for a long time and no time at all. 

His name was Hinata Hajime.

And this was not how his story began.

One day, not very long ago, he'd woken up on a beach.

He hadn't been alone.

There had been people all around him.

Some had been confused, some alarmed, some hungry, but the only one who had mattered in that first moment had been the one that had woken him.

The first face he saw, the first voice he heard.

Komaeda Nagito was not where his story began either, but he was a convenient enough place to start.

And somehow he was always the easiest part to remember.

The rain was still falling.

There'd been no rain during those first few brief sunlit days before everything had gone so terribly wrong.

He knew this place.

This was... their island. 

This was Jabberwock Island.

Only... it wasn’t, was it?

It wasn't real.

The island had been a lie.

And the truth as well.

Or, more simply, it had been something in between.

Everything that had happened there had meant something and nothing at all.

Funny, how he couldn't ever seem to escape it, even in his dreams.

Trapped.

As if this were the only place he knew, as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist for him or had never truly existed at all.

Perhaps he'd always been there.

Perhaps he'd been born on the island and everything he thought of as 'before' had only been a long, strange dream.

Only... he knew that wasn't true.

The island was not where his story began.

But the island was still important.

For many reasons, but also because that was where he'd met Komaeda Nagito.

And that was the truth.

But it wasn't the whole truth.

He'd also met Komaeda Nagito on a stairway.

On a boat.

In the dark.

In a collision.

In the rain

On his knees.

He was always meeting him, meeting him and forgetting him, and the only thing that had stayed consistent through all those meetings, the only thing that had ever really been true, was that he  _confused_  him.

He’d always been so  _confusing_. 

He was… confusing and awful and he…

_Missed him._

He’d lain in bed that night, the night after the trial, staring up at the ceiling and he’d wanted to  _scream_.

Because he didn't want to miss him.

How could he  _do_  that?

 _Why_  would he do that?

What had he been  _thinking_?

Well, no, he didn't need to ask that.

There was no mystery there, not really.

He thought he'd understood his intent well enough by the end even though he hadn't wanted to. 

And he still wanted to scream and scream and scream and never stop, because everything felt so, so  _wrong_  and he couldn’t cry, couldn’t feel  _anything_ outside of that vague directionless frustration, that urge to scream until his voice cracked and gave way to silence.

Because he felt  _broken_.

He felt as if losing them had scorched the earth of his soul, burnt everything he was to ash and all that was left was this vast, terrible emptiness. 

And he was  _glad_.

Terribly, horribly  _glad_.

Because he was pretty sure if he could feel anything, if he could, it would be too  _big_ , too  _much_.

That he might just walk out into the ocean and swim, swim and swim until his arms could carry him no further.

Until he couldn't come back.

Until exhaustion dragged him down beneath the waves, because it's too  _much_.

And so he's glad.

Because if he could feel this, feel anything, he’d never be able to get over it, around it, past it and he  _has_  to.

His friends needed him and he needed to help them. Needed to just... move on... to just... get past it.

He couldn't help them and he couldn't go with them. 

He wasn't sure they'd have even cared if he had tried.

He could almost hear Komaeda's flat, scornful tones, "Oh, Hinata, you're here. Huh. Lame."

Nanami's pleasant ambivalence and inevitable disappointment, "Oh, hello, Hinata, what about the others?"

They hadn't cared enough to stay.

So why would they care if he....

They'd probably already forgotten all about him before they even left.

So, he was glad.

He could help the others. Sonia and Souda and Kazuryuu and Owari. He could  _try_  to be useful to them at least, even if he was nothing more than ordinary.

_Boring._

He couldn't do anything for Nanami or Komaeda anymore.

They were gone.

They were gone and he... he just needed to  _sleep_.

To get past this.

To just....

Move on.

So it was… it was good that he couldn’t feel anything, that everything was so... numb.

So empty. 

It was a  _good_  thing.

_Necessary._

So it needed to stay that way.

At least for a little while.

So, he wouldn’t think about it.

Wouldn’t think about them. 

Wouldn’t let himself think about Komaeda alone in that warehouse with that terrible resolution. About whether maybe he'd even been laughing, giddy in his desolation, as he set the trap, as he up lined all those Monokuma standees up like dominos. Whether his hands had shaken as he tied those ropes around his ankles, as he'd slashed the knife across his legs.

He wouldn’t let himself think about whether he'd cried at the end.

Whether he’d regretted it in the last moments after the fire ignited, when it was too late to turn aside, too late to do anything but die. 

He wouldn’t let himself think about Nanami smiling as if it didn’t matter at all, as if nothing did, as if she’d never cared at all or she’d cared too much or he had.

Because he couldn't do anything about it.

About any of it.

And maybe it should have hurt.

Maybe  _everything_  should have hurt.

And it  _didn’t_.

It really was like he was broken, like this had shattered him into pieces and all that was left was this ache, this terrible empty space where the tangled, contradictory jumble of his feelings for Komaeda used to live, where the warmth and affection he’d once felt for Nanami had been… 

All the others, losing them had hurt, but this….

This… had been too much.

Too much.

And now there was just…

Nothing.

Had any of it been real?

Had they ever cared at all?

Had he?

Nanami was gone.

Komaeda was gone.

So, either way, it didn’t really matter anymore.

None of it mattered anymore.

He just needed to rest, to sleep.

He was so tired.

So tired and everything seemed surreal as if he hadn't slept properly in days.

Had he been dreaming?

Was he still dreaming?

Would he wake up and find Komaeda and Nanami eating breakfast in the dining room as if nothing had happened?

As he lay there in the dark that night, he'd kept catching images out of the corner of his eye, little sparks of color, little spurts of green and white, like he'd spent too long staring into the sun even though it was the middle of the night and the only light in the room was the pale moonlight washing in through his window.

It was all so….

_Boring._

Why had he wanted this?

He rolled onto his side, staring sightlessly at the pale, featureless stretch of wall beside his bed.

But it reminded him of Komaeda's stupid hair so he rolled over to face the shower instead.

He was so tired.

Why had he wanted this?

Any of this?

In the end, all it did was….

_Hurt._

Eventually exhaustion had pulled him down into sleep.

When he'd next opened his eyes, sunlight had been streaming in through his little window and the room had been far too bright and each and every one of those stupid Monokuma figurines lined up on his shelves had seemed to be smiling at him, mocking every last one of his life choices.

Why had he thought it was a good idea to collect them in the first place?

He huffed a sigh and tugged the blanket up over his head.

His eyes ached, his head too.

He'd stayed in bed until the need to pee had finally driven him to the bathroom hours later.

He spent far too long washing his hands afterwards.

Had scrubbed them until they ached.

He hadn't cried.

There was nothing worth crying about.

Not really.

They'd both lied to him.

About everything.

He was pretty sure he'd never even known them at all.

Eventually he'd stumbled back to bed again and burrowed back under the covers.

His stomach grumbled protest, but the need to eat was easily smothered beneath the desire not see  _anyone_  or do  _anything_. 

He didn't sleep.

He didn't even really think about anything.

Instead, he'd just curled in around his knees beneath the stifling warmth of the blanket and watched the white of his sheets fade to grey as the day wore too slowly towards night.

He didn't want to be here anymore.

He wished the day would pass.

And somehow, eventually, it did.

But it had seemed to take a long, long time.

And then... 

Everything had ended. 

Everything had ended and he'd woken up in the dark and he hadn't been alone.

They’d been together in that dark, so close he could have kissed the breath from his lips.

_“I don’t really understand why you’re wasting your thoughts on someone as worthless as me.”_

And this was what he knew:

  * He'd never felt that thinking of him had been a waste.
  * Even when all those thoughts had been sad and angry, bitter and resentful.
  * But he'd never told him that.
  * Maybe he should have.
  * But it probably wouldn't have changed anything anyway.



Besides that kind of thing... was always easier to think than to say.

For a moment they'd been together in the dark and then he'd been alone again.

Or maybe he'd always been alone.

Either way he’d woken up to a different darkness, to a different reality. 

And this was what he remembered:

  * He'd woken up alone, trapped.
  * His friends had been screaming.
  * He'd been screaming too.
  * His hair had been long.
  * Long and dark and tangled around him and it had scared the hell out of him.
  * His friends had been there.
  * But not all of them.
  * He'd been grateful.
  * Because they were there.
  * And because there had at least been hope for the others.



Hope in the glow of those pods, because they weren't dead.

Not yet.

And that hope had made him  _greedy_.

He wanted them to go home together.

All of them to go home together.

And this might not have been how his story had begun.

But it was, more or less, how it continued.

He’d slept again. 

And he'd found him again.

“Komaeda.”

He could taste the name, bitter on his tongue.

Right.

Komaeda.

He’d come here for Komaeda. 

Only that wasn’t… that wasn’t quite right, was it?

He hadn’t come here _for_  him, but he’d still found him here again and again nonetheless.

He'd always turned up.

Like a bad penny.

_Again._

_“_   _This isn’t quite how I imagined you inside of me, Hinata, but perhaps this is just right for trash like me, hm?”_

And  _again_.

And that was the truth.

But it wasn't the whole truth.

After all, he'd been the one to seek him out, hadn’t he?

Because he'd wanted to see him.

Because he'd… missed him.

Because he was…

He was…

Komaeda was…

He remembered the pod, the glow of it against the wall of the hospital room they shared. Remembered peering at it from inches away unable to see anything but shadows inside, but knowing he was there. 

Sleeping.

Right.

Komaeda was still sleeping.

They all were.

And he'd just been dreaming about him.

Dreaming about him again and again.

Dreams that were filthy and terrible and wonderful and confusing all at once.

Dreaming about him again and again until he’d begun to think that maybe it wasn’t a dream at all. 

Until he could no longer bring himself to wake.

Until he couldn't tell the difference anymore between what was real and what was not.

Because he couldn't stop thinking that maybe Komaeda was, somehow, there with him and that was… exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

Because if he were there then it meant he was okay, maybe.

But it also meant... 

He  _wasn’t_. 

Because the Komaeda he'd known here had never been okay.

Not that the one he'd known before had been a picture of mental health either, but....

This Komaeda had been so far away from okay that he might as well have been on a different plane of existence and he didn’t… he didn’t know how to help him.

Didn’t even know if he truly wanted to… even if he could.

And that was the truth.

But it wasn't the whole truth.

Because he…

He couldn’t even help  _himself_.

Because he was….

He was….

She’d called him  _Izuru_.

But that’s not who he was.

He was…

Hinata Hajime

And he was…

_Broken._

“It’s not,” Komaeda had hissed, his voice cool and almost even once again as the pain presumably faded and he got himself under control once again. He sounded vaguely disgusted, but he couldn’t be sure if that disgust was for either of them or both. He didn’t pull away though, just pressed his face against his chest and let him continue to run vaguely panicked hands over his hair. His voice when he spoke again was muffled and low. “You make me sick. Your lies make me sick. Why won’t you just do what I want you to do? What you want to do? You’re here, aren’t you? Why are you even here if you’re not going to be what I want? If you’re here to make me feel good than  _do it_. If you’re here to hurt me than  _hurt me_. What are you even here for if I have to do all the work?”

“I don’t-“

“Liar, stop lying, just stop  _lying_  to me, don’t you think I know what I want? I  _know_  what I want,” Komaeda rasped, short, blunt nails scrapping over his bare shoulders, over his back, and it hurt, but it also burned through him, real and wanted. Heat pooled in his limbs, between his legs, dragged a stuttering moan from his lips.

The world seemed to spin around him and he closed his eyes to keep it at bay.

“Yes, like that,” he groaned, his voice still muffled as he pressed against his chest, raising one trembling hand to run a thumb over one nipple, already painfully tight. " _That’s_  what I want to hear from you. I’m tired of arguing with myself. It’s  _boring_. It’s such a hopeless thing to argue with oneself. You can never really win.”

 _Liar_ , he'd said.

“I don’t understand anything you’re saying,” he'd panted as those blunt fingernails scored his chest so hard that he was pretty sure that if he wasn’t bleeding it was only because this was a dream. “I don’t understand you at all,” he rasped, blinking his eyes open and trying to focus past the desire to find a way to climb inside Komaeda and never come back out again.

_Liar._

“You never did," Komaeda had replied, leaning back and offering him a smile that was bitter as it his voice was caustic. "Nothing new there. Just touch me, Hinata. Just touch me. Don’t you want to hear me moan for you again?”

And there was something about that bitter, mocking tone that set his nerves on edge, something that felt like swallowing nails, because he  _did_.

He wanted to hear him  _moan_ , he wanted to hear him  _scream_.

He wanted to break his composure to  _pieces_. 

The marks left by Komaeda’s fingernails ached and he sat there, leaning back against the wall almost lazily and he'd just looked so certain, so…  _smug_.

He was confusing and terrible and he hated him.

He  _hated_  him.

 _Hated_  him for being like this.

Even in his  _dreams_.

For making him feel like this.

This  _confused._  

This  _sad_  and  _sick_  and  _terrible_.

For leaving him  _alone_.

He hated him so  _much_.

So.

Much.

And as he stared at him something in him just  _broke_.

“Beg me for it,” he’d replied conversationally, rage making him cold, bitter, as he shoved him back against the wall, climbed into his lap, one hand diving under his pale shirt to drag rough fingers over him. He'd never touched anyone but himself before, but it wasn't so very different and he's too angry to appreciate the nuances anyway. 

His fingers are rough against his skin, catching moisture from the tip to make the slide smoother, but it's not enough, not near enough to make it fluid or easy.

Komaeda whimpered, fingers dropping to grope for handholds in the sheets as his eyes squeezed shut, his entire face scrunching up like his touch was painful and it sent a thrill through him, like lightning that made his hands shake.

"Moan for me.”

He knows he’s the one saying the words, but they seem to come from very far away and he's sure the sound is almost lost beneath the frantic slide of skin against skin as he moves faster, grips just a little bit tighter. It's awkward still and the movement stilted, but he hasn't the least intention of stopping to figure out a better solution, not when Komaeda's hips are jumping up to chase his touch each time he swipes his fingers over the tip.

When he moans it sounds as if it’s been ripped from him by force and it just makes him harder, just makes him greedy for the sound, makes him want to hear it  _again_.

Again and  _again_.

And he hates that too.

Because it wasn't real, none of it was.

This was all just another  _lie_.

Even if it was one he's telling himself.

He's just....

"Luck,” he'd hissed, vaguely aware that his hand is still shaking, trembling out of rhythm before he finally relinquishes his hold completely. “Such a useless, tawdry, pathetic talent, hardly worthy of consideration. How lucky do you feel right now, hm? If you want me inside you, you'll beg me for it. Tell me how much you need me, how empty you are without me, how unworthy you are, but how much you need it anyway. Do it."

And then he's leaning back disgusted with himself, with Komaeda, with  _everything_  to find Komaeda looking at him. 

Like he was…  _special_.

And he knew it was just a lie.

He knew it was.

But it was such a  _pretty_  lie.

Such a  _convincing_  lie.

And he  _wanted_  it.

He wanted  _him_.

Even if it was only for a moment.

And it makes him feel brittle, fragile as that want slashes to the heart of him tearing away his rage and leaving only the lingering vestiges of disgust.

He'd leaned forward, catching a hand against his chest to steady himself, curling his fingers just inside the part of his shirt, framing that bloody reminder of how sick, how depraved they both could be even as Komaeda took a breath, still staring at him with that same steady gaze. 

That gaze that had spoken of challenges and dares, the same look he’d always had in trials when he wanted him to speak against him, to rise to the occasion, to push through his lies or truths and find the hope he thought would come from all those terrible things. As if he hadn’t stuck his own fingers in that wound and screamed bloody murder two minutes ago. As if none of that had happened at all. 

“Go ahead,” Komaeda murmured, gaze still steady. “I want you to.”

“Well,  _I_  don’t want me to,” he'd whispered, but it sounded weak even in his own ears. A mewling, whining sound in the dark without any real weight or desire behind it, a token protest at best. His thighs had been shaking, quivering with the strain of kneeling over him, of not touching him.

His stomach had roiled, queasy and uncertain, but it had been difficult to tell if it was disgust or nerves or something else entirely.

And that was the truth.

He was....

And he's in the rain again, alone again, in the parking lot again, as he hits his knees and vomits water he doesn't remember drinking across the dark, rain slick pavement.

"No," he whispered, fingers curling, bruising against the pavement. "That wasn't... I didn't..."

He didn't remember that.

He didn't... and he  _did_.

Vividly.

Just as vividly as he remembered the taste of Komaeda in his mouth, of his cock rushing over his tongue. 

_“Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”_

"But satisfaction brought it back," he whispered to the rain, his breath rattling like old bones in his chest.

He shivered and wrapped his arms around his chest to stave it off, rocking back and forth as if that will somehow stave off the cold in the pit of his stomach the sudden certain undeniable knowledge that there was something very, very wrong with him.

That maybe Komaeda had been right to run from him, to leave him behind. 

Why had he... why had he  _done_  that?

Why had he  _forgotten_  that?

And if he'd forgotten that... what else had he forgotten?

What else had he done?

He remembered Komaeda's feet swinging back and forth, Komaeda dangling from the tree.

_“They sting sometimes too, but mostly they just ache. Except when you touch them, of course, than they just make other things ache, hm?”_

He'd been....

He'd...

He…

He remembered trailing fingers across the soles of vulnerable dangling feet.

Remembered feeling… feeling… how had it felt?

Soft?

Nice? 

How did someone feel when they did something like that?

Then the crack, the sudden pain of Komaeda's hand against his cheek.

And then he’d been standing in the rain watching him disappear again.

Watching him leave him behind  _again_.

And it…

 _Hurt._  

Everything  _hurt_.

He…

He didn’t know how to make him stay.

Even in his dreams.

He couldn't....

He'd never known how to make him stay.

And it  _hurt_.

And he'd wanted him to hurt too. 

He remembered the rain and the bridge… standing on the bridge, tearing him down, tearing him to pieces, because he’d… he was just… what was he…?

Why had he…?

Why had he  _done_  that?

He moaned, curling over his knees, crushing his forehead against the rough asphalt his breaths coming in panicked gasps. 

He hadn't,  _had he_?

He wouldn't... he hadn't...

His hands trembled, scrambling against the ground for purchase, trying to find his balance as if the ground were in danger of shifting, sliding away from him completely.

 _“You’d beg for it, I’m quite certain, beg for both the pain and the pleasure of it. Perhaps that would even be entertaining for a while. Your raw, breathy, irritating voice calling out to him, ‘_ Hinata… oh… Hinata… please. _’”_

"No, no, no, no," he moaned, words swimming up from the trenches of memory to choke him.

Not... that wasn't....

It barely felt like him at all.

But he  _remembered_  it.

All of it.

Even if it was through a haze of red.

Every awful, hateful, revolting word.

He remembered how  _good_  it had felt, how satisfying… like every dark moment of frustration and rage and confusion and  _hurt_  he'd felt towards him during those long weeks given voice.

How much it had hurt during that last trial and afterwards, the way he'd...  _looked_  at him.

Like he'd suddenly become someone else, someone who hadn't been worth his time, someone who he'd regretted ever meeting.

Someone he'd just wanted to  _forget_.

How much it had  _hurt_.

Everything that he hadn't let himself feel at the end during those last days, knowing what Komaeda had done.

It felt like all of that were finally screaming out of the void he’d left behind.

The void he'd torn in him by dying, by leaving him, by making Nanami  _murder_  him and taking her away too.

He wanted to make him hurt. 

Because he'd made him care and then he'd taken it all away like it was  _nothing_  when they'd been  _everything_ to him.

And he'd never even  _told them_.

He'd never bothered to say it.

Any of it.

And he hadn't known how to stop, to make the pain of that stop, so he'd shut it away, he'd shut it all away.

And it had been fine.

Until he'd stood there in the rain, his cheek aching, watched him vanish into the distance and it had just been... too much.

Even his dreams, he couldn't be happy, he couldn't have the things he wanted, he couldn't do anything, be anything.

He was just....

"You know," she commented, arms slipping around his waist; chin digging in against his shoulder. "It doesn't have to be that way. It's just a dream, right? So what does it matter really? You can be whoever you want to be, you can do whoever you want to do, it's not complicated."

It wasn't complicated.

He closed his eyes as fingers trailed over his chest, slipping down to trace across the front of his pants, it seemed like the simplest thing in the world to just stand there, to let those fingers flick open the fastenings on his pants to dip inside.

He wanted this, didn't he?

Wanted to feel something?

To be needed?

Necessary?

He shivered as he curled those fingers, his fingers, around his cock with a whimper.

"There you go. Easy peasy, right?" She whispered, "Feels good, doesn't it? To take control? He's always wanted you, you know. He's been wandering around here for days and days looking for you, jerking off in your cabin because it still smelled a little like you. It's completely pathetic. And kind of gross, really."  
  
And he can almost see it, Komaeda sprawled across his sheets, knees bent, moaning his name into the stifling warmth of his room, the slick slap of flesh and squelch of something slick easing the way as his other hand slides lower, vanishing beneath the arc of his thrusting hips.

Can almost hear him.

_"Hajime, please, god, I... hn... ah!"_

It didn't take long at all until he came in a rush, spilling warm over his fingers across the damp sand with Komaeda's voice still ringing in his ears, his legs trembling, his breath coming too fast and shallow and she laughed in his ear. "You'd really be doing him a favor if you finally just fucked him so you could both get it out of your systems. I'm really not enjoying the working conditions here. Teenage hormones are such a drag. Even if they are mostly artificial."

He collapses against the sand, still panting, still coming down from the momentary high of release, his pants still loose and open around his hips. 

"There you go, that was easy, wasn't it?" His breath caught, startled as a fingernail traced across the curve of his lip. For a moment he'd forgotten she was there, forgotten all about her. He looked up and she smiled at him, soft and approving, "Hinata, you're _lonely_ , aren't you?"

"Yes," he whispered, fingers of his free hand curling in the sand.

"I knew you were. No one wants you, do they? Everyone leaves you eventually. And who can blame them, right? I mean, who would want someone like you, hm? Someone so boring and ordinary? It's hard to believe you made it all the way to this ripe old age without just killing yourself. I mean, really, you'd be doing everybody a favor if you did."

He was forgettable, he was boring, he was nothing.

But he already knew that.

He'd always known that.

He was nothing and he didn't matter, nothing did, and no one cared and everything  _hurt_.

His friends would forget him.

It was just a matter of time.

He wasn't remarkable.

He wasn't memorable.

He wasn't anything.

He couldn't even  _dream up_  a version of someone that cared about him.

How pathetic was that?

She smiled, a wide, white-toothed grin, "Don't worry though, Mr. Boring. I'll find a way to make you useful yet."

Then those fingers were shoving past the barrier of his lips, fingernails digging,  _scrapping_  over his tongue and he tried to scream, but there was no space for that as he choked on the press of her fingers as they clawed down his throat. It was like swallowing a thousand wasps, a buzzing, stinging terror that brought tears to his eyes as he scrambled for purchase, trying to escape to shove himself away and push her out of him simultaneously and managing neither task.

It hurt.

It hurt.

_It hurt._

And she was laughing, shoving him over on his back as she knelt on his chest, her knees digging in as she drove her arm deep and deeper still down his throat, scraping raw and painful over ever inch as the rain drenched them both.

He couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe, couldn't scream as tears streamed for his eyes blending seamlessly with the fall of rain as his mouth cracked so far open that he was certain he'd never be able to close it again, as it stretched wide around her forearm.

And then she was gone and he was picking himself up off the ground, dusting mud and sand from his pants after he'd redone the fastenings.

His name was Hinata Hajime.

He wasn't Kamukura Izuru. 

But sometimes he  _wanted_  to be.

Because he was a _monster_.

And monsters couldn't be hurt.

Monsters didn't feel pain.

And he was more than that. So much more than he’d ever been.

 _He_  was talented.

 _He_  was memorable.

 _He_  could have the things he wanted.

 _He_  didn't have to hurt like  _this_.

And it had been  _easy_.

And it had felt  _good_.

Like a release.

Better than anything ever  _had_.

And it was so  _easy_  to give in to it, to just let it happen.

To just let  _her_  happen.

All of it, everything he'd kept bottled up, locked away, every last lingering fragment of despair within him finally given purpose,  _relief_.

He'd wanted to be...

_Cruel._

Because he was so....

It hurt so  _much_.

It hurt so much.

And he... he just... he just didn't care at all.

He probably never had.

It was a simple matter to catch up with him. 

To step up behind him on the bridge and slip his fingers into his back, into the squelch of that waiting warmth, imminently satisfying to hear the way he cried out, to see the way pleasure bent his spine, but it had been distracting too.

Because he...

He....

So he'd drawn back and used words instead.

Words were easier, more distant, and it had felt so good to lash out, to be cruel, to be  _him_.

To be  _better_.

To be someone who  _mattered_.

Someone who could touch him and not care.

Someone who could hurt without being hurt in return.

Someone he'd  _remember_.

And he could hear her in the back of his head urging him on, whispering assurance and provocation.

And then...

_“Oh, you’re really slow, aren’t you? I like my version better, he's a lot quicker than you. Still, you're not exactly boring, so let’s have some fun together before you have to go, hm?”_

He remembered falling, the strange unexpected exhilaration of it, the warmth of laughter in his ear and arms held tight around him.

And the anger had lingered, but it had already begun to fade beneath the subtle balm of  _my version_.

As if he _belonged_  to him.

As if he  _mattered_.

As if  _Hinata Hajime_  mattered.

The impact hadn't hurt.

One moment they'd been falling and the next he'd been in the water his hand around his pale throat, shoving him down beneath the crashing waves, water washing cold over his fingers, but whatever madness had overtaken him was less, was almost gone and there was only the vague haze of desire and the clinging residue of hate, but even that had slipped away easily enough beneath the gentle, constant rush of the ocean.

He remembered allowing his other hand to be guided, coaxed… there’d… there’d been something else too… something… a memory of something he could have done, but... it's gone, swept away before he can grasp it and her voice had fallen silent and still as he'd startled awake as if from a bad dream and dragged Komaeda up out of the water.

He'd been himself again.

For whatever that was worth.

He woke again, choking, coughing as if he were the one emerging from the waves of his memory only to find himself still lying on rough asphalt, gasping, exhaustion clinging to every scrapped, exposed piece of his bruised, aching body.

The sharp taste of bile lingered on his tongue as the first sob shook through him.

And the second.

And the third.

The rain was still falling.

It had been falling for a long time and no time at all.

His name was Hinata Hajime.

And he is suddenly, painfully, aware that he doesn't actually know anything at all.

 


	17. Eager for the Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...It was time to talk of...

_“I don't want whatever I want. Nobody does. Not really. What kind of fun would it be if I just got everything I ever wanted just like that, and it didn't mean anything? What then?”_  
― Neil Gaiman, Coraline

 **+++**  
**DAY THREE**  
-continued-

 

The sky was dark and the rain was still falling.

Perhaps after a while he fell into an exhausted asleep... if one could sleep in dreams.

He wasn't sure and it hardly mattered.

Either way after a while the sobs had softened and then faded completely leaving him drifting in the aftermath.

Scorched clean for the moment, still trembling in the aftermath of that overwhelming onslaught of emotion.

It seemed he'd laid there forever as the rain continued to fall.

It had been falling for a long time and no time at all.

What was  _wrong_  with him?

What did any of it mean?

He shuddered again, remembering how it had felt to have her fingers creeping across him, to let her....

No, to let  _himself_ , because she wasn't... she wasn't  _real_.

 _None_  of this could be real.

Because if it was real....

If it  _was_  real....

Then they were still...

No.

Not they.

_He._

_He_  was still there.

Still  _here_.

They'd escaped, but he was...  _stuck_.

_Trapped._

There.

_Here._

And he wasn't sure which was worse.

Either this was what he was like... what he'd always been like underneath it all.

At the core.

All these vile images and horrifying desires.

All of this was part of him, inside of him.

Or this was all real and if that were true...

If that were true...

How much of what he'd seen, what he'd felt, could be trusted?

How much was her?

How much was him?

How much was _real_?

It had all been so…  _vivid_.

Of course, everything that had come before had been too and if this _were_ just more of the same then maybe it made sense that it would feel as real as anything.

Only... everything had made sense there.

Kind of.

Mostly.

Though, in retrospect, maybe they'd been a little too willing to accept some things.

Talking bears weren't completely outside of the realm of possibility.

But those giant mechanical beasts?

The elaborate executions?

That mechanical version of Nekomaru hadn't really been all that believable either, in retrospect, but they'd all just been willing to accept it as if it was totally reasonable for one of their friends to become a giant....

Robot?

Cyborg?

Was there a difference?

There was probably a difference.

Kazuichi had probably made a point of running down all the differences for him at some point.

Or he would have... if he'd bothered to ask.

He wasn't sure if he had or not.

He rolled onto his back, turning his face up into the rain, eyes squeezed shut, still shaking, his teeth buried painfully in his bottom lip.

Maybe he  _was_  just crazy.

Maybe that was all this was. He kept thinking about it again and again, turning it over and rolling it under and going over and over it and back and forth until all his arguments were beginning to wear away to nothing.

His name was Hinata Hajime.

This is what he thought he knew:

  * He was probably crazy.
  * He was almost definitely a terrible person.
  * But if he wasn't crazy, or maybe even if he  _was_ , he might still be trapped in that game... _her_ game.
  * Waking up might have been a lie.
  * His friends might have been a lie.
  * That hope might have been a lie.
  * He couldn't trust anything.



Or anyone.

Or anything.

Not even himself.

But if he was still trapped in the virtual world somehow....

And he was probably just crazy for even thinking that.

But if he _wasn't_....

If everything he was experiencing was still that world, her world, then he might not be alone.

Might not be the only one.

_Komaeda._

He could still feel him against his fingertips, taste him on his tongue, hear his rough, rasping laughter.

It had been easy to excuse it away, to excuse everything away when he'd thought he was nothing more than a figment of his imagination.

Because it didn't matter.

It didn't matter if he put his dick in his mouth or told him he loved him or hated him or that he wanted him, because it wasn't real. It wasn't supposed to be real. Even when he'd just decided to play along he'd still... he'd still been... it hadn't mattered. Not really. He'd just selfishly gone along, chased after him like he was a rabbit gone down a hole, ignored all the signs that he didn't simply exist for his benefit.

But if he was real... if he'd done all those things with him,  _to_  him, he just....

He felt sick.

He  _was_  sick.

If this Komaeda were his Komaeda....

No, not his.

Never his.

He'd never been _his_.

He'd never really known him at all.

Hadn't cared about him.

Not really.

Because if he had, he would have known.

Would have seen, would have figured it out sooner. 

He was sure he would have.

But he hadn't.

Even though Komaeda had been telling him all along.

But he'd been so caught up in his own shit that he hadn't....

He hadn't been _listening._

Had just dismissed every strange comment Komaeda made as nonsense or cruelty, because he didn't understand.

And maybe just because he didn't really _want_ any of it to be real.

Not really.

Not after everything they'd done to each other, with each other.

But he couldn't seem to escape the creeping dread that he was right.

That they were both trapped there.

And neither of them had seen it.

He'd been so caught up in the tangled mess of own selfish, stupid feelings that he hadn't heard him at all, not really.

And Komaeda... he wasn't sure what Komaeda had been thinking at all.

He never had been.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling sick and sicker still as the gauze grazed his face.

That gauze he could still only vaguely remember wrapping around himself.

He couldn't stop shaking.

He was so tired of wondering.

Of not  _knowing_.

He curled back on his side, opening his eyes to stare into the dark of the night, across the rain slick pavement to the shadow of the road beyond.

Komaeda was at the hospital.

Or he had been.

He could... go there.

Go there and just _ask_ him.

But....

Would he be able to trust in the answer?

How could he trust anything he saw?

Anything he felt?

Anything he heard?

He was so....

He closed his eyes again and wished the rain would stop falling.

That he would just wake up and find himself staring up at the bland, boring white of his bedroom ceiling. 

That everything that had happened, that he thought had happened, even the things he didn't quite remember, would have been nothing more than a long, strange dream.

He wished he were boring and ordinary and nothing ever happened to him and no one bothered to remember him and everything was awful again.

Because at least then he could believe it.

It was easy to believe he was nothing.

Easy to be forgotten.

To be no one.

In the end, it was a relief to let darkness and exhaustion drag him down, because down in the dark he didn't have to think about what he had done.

He didn't have to think about all those hazy, strange, disjointed memories that made no sense and every bit of sense and made him feel so....

He didn't have to think about what was  _real_.

When he woke he was walking across the beach.

The sun was shining bright and high in the sky, the air thick and blistering with warmth, shoes crunching and sinking into the thick sand.

And he was different.

All those feelings, all that horror and sadness and pain all seemed very far away.

Like it had all happened to someone else entirely.

Like it had all just been a story he'd heard somewhere.

A tale so boring he'd forgotten most of it already.

And then it was gone.

He watched Naegi Makoto's dark t-shirt clad back receding into the distance, frowning as he realized he'd been unconsciously matching his pace to the slow plod of feet behind him rather than the brisk step of the man before him.

“Did you know," he commented from even further behind him than he'd been the last time he'd spoken, a smile in his voice. "That when hippopotami sleep in the water their bodies automatically bob up to the surface to take a breath then sink back down again?” 

It takes him a minute to parse the strange feeling in his chest. It's not quite irritation, but it's close.

It's... confusion?

Perhaps.

It felt a little like buzzing through channels on a television in that it left him feeling the same strange momentary fascination as he observed each odd little disjointed piece of action he'd discover from one flip to the next. None of it could ever hold his interest on its own, but the unintentional patterns channel flipping created occasionally offered a satisfying distraction he couldn't eek from the predictability of conventional programming. He could craft all those glimpses, those unrelated scenes into thin, bite-size stories, transient creations to be observed and discarded as fast as he liked.

Listening to Komaeda Nagito felt the same.

As if every strange disconnected thing Komaeda said was something unexpected, something unpredictable, specifically cultivated for his benefit.

To entertain and be discarded and forgotten from moment to moment.

“Why are you doing this?" He turned so he could see his face, judge the sincerity of his response.

“Don’t you know?” He asked, grinning and looking vaguely feverish.

Of course he knew.

How could he not know?

But knowing didn’t make it any simpler to comprehend. Komaeda Nagito’s patterns were strange, erratic in a way most were not. It made him difficult to predict to a point and that made his motivations challenging to quantify.

Randomness for the sake of randomness was boring, but in this he could see a clear purpose and that made it something different.

Not quite interesting, but a relative anomaly.

Something....

New.

“You’re… doing it for me. Why?” 

He shrugged, a smile playing across his lips, “You seemed to be enjoying it.” 

Enjoying it?

Not a completely accurate assessment.

He couldn't enjoy things, not by standard definitions.

Most people seemed to equate enjoyment with happiness more than vague satisfaction which was the best he was capable of.

It had been… not unlike the ship in those first moments, a brief novelty that defied immediate expectation, delayed analysis.

Logic dictated that everything about Komaeda Nagito should be boring, as boring as anything and everything else had been since he'd awoken in that room beneath Hope's Peak and begun going through the motions.

That this was all merely a momentary deviation from the course he had set for himself and it would only disappoint him in the end.

That Komaeda Nagito and his motivations were as boring as everything else.

He turned away, forcing his attention back to the task at hand, the reason he had come all this way and put forth all this effort.

He did not have the patience for such childish antics.

For such pointless distraction.

“I’m not,” he murmured, to shut down further attempts, but his voice came out softer than he’d intended.

“Would you two  _please_  hurry up?” Naegi Makoto called over his shoulder, “We need to get started quickly or we’re going to run out of time.”

He could practically feel Komaeda Nagito’s confusion like a physical presence behind him, a millstone catching around his neck.

“Are we?” He asked curiously, the scuff of his shoes against the sand slowing even as he threw a hand back to catch his wrist, to drag him forward to match his own quickened pace.

Naegi Makoto had not been incorrect.

Time was short and he would not allow anything to stand in his way, certainly not  _him_.

He yelped, tripping along with him, surprise sweeping his already labored breath away and leaving him gasping like a fish out of water. “W-wait, I…”

He felt him stumble again and released his hold, dropping to a knee in front of him so that his legs caught against his back, tipping him forward so he almost fell over the top of him with a startled grunt.

It had not been a truly an impulsive decision to do so, of course. He could see easily enough how these events would play out. In every scenario he could see him struggling, see himself losing time trying to coax him forward, to urge him on in a dozen different ways and each and every one of those scenarios ended with some variation on this theme.

He could delay it, but he would always end up carrying Komaeda Nagito into that building.

It was as inevitable as the passage of time.

“Get on,” he ordered, tone abrupt, impatient, as he reached back to tug his hair over his shoulder, out of the way. 

He sometimes thought of cutting it, but it provided a distraction and he was always in want of distractions.

Though not for much longer.

“What are you-“ 

He sighed heavily. He was well used to having to explain himself to people, but it never pleased him to have to do so. “Your body is weak. You’re already at your limit. You must be necessary if you are here so I will carry you to the facility.”

“I thought I was boring?” 

“That doesn’t make you special,” he murmured staring down at the stretch of their shadows across the sand. “It just makes you like everyone else.”

“Huh,” Komaeda replied, fingers closing over his shoulder as he flung his other arm around his neck and leaned heavily in over him, sighing relief against his hair. “Th-That sounds really dull.”

 “…It is,” he answered as he slid arms beneath his knees and rose to his feet.

He didn't tell him that this was the most interesting conversation he'd had in years.

There was no point and he had little patience for pointless things.

Somehow Komaeda Nagito is lighter than he expects him to be.

It's surprising.

Perhaps it is merely an issue of perspective or perhaps his talents are beginning to fail him in small ways or perhaps there is simply more to Komaeda Nagito than he could see through simple, disinterested observation. It hardly matters, particularly now when they're at the end of things, but it’s another inconsistency, another distraction, another point of interest offered by a man who should be anything but interesting.

Not that it matters.

Come what may, he would die soon.

Of course, he should have died already.

Luck was boring, but it was also difficult to quantify.

It always had been.

Still.

This was, more or less, a place where stories would end and begin anew.

What would Komaeda Nagito’s story be?

Something boring and trite, no doubt.

Sand crunched beneath his feet as they continued on their way and the waves were a soft constant rush of sound in the background as they spilled across the sand.

Boring and monotonous as the turn of the world. 

Fingers sifted absentminded through his hair, tugging over the occasional knot with the even more occasional murmur of completely insincere apology.

No one has ever touched him so casually before, as if there was no purpose to it beyond the act itself.

He didn't dislike the feel of his fingers in his hair or the vaguely uncomfortable sweat-soaked warmth of him against his back.

He didn’t even particularly mind the soft hum of a tune he didn't recognize, lyrics sung in Belgian-accented English.

Why  _Belgian_?

It didn’t matter, of course, so he didn’t ask.

It was just another oddity for the pile.

His singing voice was surprisingly pleasant for all that it wavered in and out and stumbled over certain syllables. He occasionally seemed to forget the lyrics altogether, humming instead to pass the time to the next word he knew and that made it reasonably interesting to listen to and more unpredictable than music typically was.

The words had eventually become soft and slurring, dragging long as he slumped more intimately against him, his limbs growing loose and heavy as exhaustion drew him down into sleep and he hunched forward to compensate for the shift in weight as he subsided toward sleep.

He hadn't missed the singing when it had faded to a mumble and then finally to silence against his shoulder, but the ocean waves lapping against the shore seem significantly less interesting by comparison.

He briefly considers waking him and asking him to continue, but dismisses the idea out of hand.

It hadn't been boring.

But it likely would be next time.

Most things were.

Better to let this be the end of it.

After all, as it stood, spending this time in Komaeda Nagito's company had turned out to be a reasonably satisfactory way to pass the time that remained of his final day.

There was little point in chancing the ruin of that satisfaction for so little gain.

"You volunteered to carry him? That's unexpected,” Naegi Makoto commented, dropping back to walk beside him as they approached the facility.

"It was more efficient than watching him continue to struggle."

"Was it?" Naegi replied, clearly doubtful.

"Why is he necessary? He's dying, you realize."

"Uh, yeah, I mean, I've read his file, but... I couldn't just leave him out. Everybody has something they want, right? Even you."

"Even me," he agreed.

"He looks pretty cozy there. I always thought he didn't really like being close to people, he must like you."

"He's not a cat."

He laughed, "No, he's not, but he's a funny sort of guy, isn't he?"

He glanced at him briefly and away, "I believe there is a saying about glass houses."

He's not altogether certain why Naegi’s words grate against his nerves, but they do.

He hitched his burden up further on his back and increased his pace so Naegi has to step a little faster to keep up. 

He is eager for this day to be over, to be done with this one last task.

"Huh," Naegi murmured and the sound is soft and surprised and the change in tone causes his spine to stiffen, his grip on those limp, sleeping limbs to tighten. "I wouldn't have expected that."

He doesn't ask what, he doesn't need to; he can hear the shades of Naegi's insinuation quite clearly.

He keeps his eyes to the path ahead of them, ignoring the unnecessary tangent, the obvious provocation. "How long before the Future Foundation discovers what you have done and comes for us?"

Naegi allows the change of subject with good grace, as he’d known he would.

Predictable.

Boring.

"Oh, I imagine they're already looking for me. Taking that many people from custody wasn’t exactly subtle. They know I'm with you so it probably won't take them long to figure out that I'm also the one who took Komaeda. I managed to get ahold of the others a little more quietly, but they're not stupid. I'm sure they've already figured out that I'm gathering you up for a reason. Even if they don't know what that reason is or where I've taken you. So, I figure it's just better to get this done. It's not like I'll be able to stop them from destroying the building or trying to take you all back with them if they find us while you guys are still out of it."

He'd assumed as much.

Nothing he'd had to say was precisely new or unexpected information.

When they finally reached the facility, Naegi jogged ahead of him to open the door, holding it for him as a blast of cool air rushed at them from within the heavily air-conditioned interior.

Komaeda stirred against him, snuffling against the back of his neck as he stepped through into the dark.

He mumbled something soft and disjointed about dogs.

"Do you think this will actually work?" Naegi asked as he slipped past him into the facility.

The room seemed incredibly dark after the bright sunlit morning outside, the dim lit only by the soft glow of the already engaged pods and the much brighter, harsher moss green light of the two that still stood open. 

Waiting.

"This would be a poor time for doubts," he replied, as the door fell shut behind them and Naegi pulled it closed with a snap that echoed in the over large space.

"It's not..."

"I am aware that you are simply attempting to make conversation. You're quite bad at it."

"Oh... okay, sorry," Naegi sighed, loud and false beneath the buzzing roar of cooling fans. "I forget how much you hate small talk."

"No, you don't," he replied, sourly.

"No, I don't," Naegi's voice was cheerful and he laughed lightly as he led the way across the dark space to the bank of glowing control monitors. "I just never get tired of seeing that look on your face when I do it. So, how'd your research trip go?"

"I retrieved the information I needed. Only two people died."

It isn't the whole truth, but it's all that is required.

"You know it's _really_ hard to like you when you're still killing people, right?"

He hadn't killed them, but he hadn't saved them either.

He'd discovered over the years that that distinction was one that rarely actually mattered in the eyes of others.

Fortunately, he also didn't particularly care whether Naegi Makoto liked him or not.

"People die every day, it's not a remarkable occurrence. They won't be missed."

"Remind me: is the casual disregard for human life one of your many talents or is that just because you're about as empathetic as a block of cheese?"

"Likely a combination of both," he replied easily, stooping over to scan the text scrolling across the monitors. "Also, you chose to work with me. It's a bit late to complain now."

"Tell me about it," Naegi grouched, flopping down in one of the chairs and wheeling it over to the workstation at the end of the row. He typed a few quick commands into the terminal and then a smile lifted his lips as the screen fluctuated and the text morphed and reformed into the image of what he'd been told was an image of one of Naegi's deceased classmates.

"Good morning, Makoto. It is nice to see you," a soft voice called and he wondered, not for the first time, how much of the power in this facility was being wasted providing it with those dulcet tones.

"Good morning," Naegi murmured, touching fingers briefly against the screen. "It's nice to see you too." 

He had little patience for sentiment.

"Was your machine able to complete the necessary calculations?" 

"You know their name is Alter Ego so don't call them 'the machine', it's _rude_. And, yes, they're all set," Naegi sighed. "All that's left is to integrate what you brought. Were you able to get everything you needed?"

"Yes."

"And you're sure this is going to work?"

"You are perfectly aware that computer programming is a talent of mine," he replied, sliding a hand into his pocket to pull the memory stick free. "Their work is pervasive, but this should be more than enough to overwrite the previous directives within the system. When we couple that with the memory wipe program used on your class and the supplementary software it should be sufficient."

" _Should_  be."

"Would you like me to test it on you?'

"Yeah, no thanks. So what happens if it’s not? We can’t just… this isn’t just for you; this needs to work for everyone. We’re only going to get one shot at this. You’re sure this will be good enough?”

“It will be,” he murmured with an authority, a confidence, he did not feel. There were too many variables to be anything close to certain, but this was what he wanted, what was necessary. It didn’t help that while he had certainly inherited the talents necessary for understanding both the psychology and neurology involved that the lack of emotional capacity hindered him significantly in his ability to anticipate their reactions and he had not erred on the side of caution, choosing instead to put his faith in his talent and that of these strangers.

There was little point in doing a thing if you weren't willing to risk enough to make it worth the cost.

He closed his fingers over the stick and shifted Komaeda’s weight against his back.

He seemed heavier than he had been before.

Naegi shrugged, turning away and typing in a few more prompts into the terminal he was working at, “Well, then I guess we should probably get started. I’ll install the programs while you get him up.”

“It would be faster if I handled the installation.”

“I’m sure it would,” Naegi acquiesced, holding his hand out for the memory stick expectantly, “but Alter Ego really doesn’t like you very much and they’re going to be the one completing the final integration so you should probably let me handle it.”

"It's true, I do not like you," the computer commented, earning a small smile from Naegi.

“Your AI program is absurd."

Without access to the program’s code and sub-routines he couldn’t piece apart its directives and it made it difficult to anticipate.

It wasn’t boring, but it wasn’t particularly useful to him either.

Naegi's smile widened as if the comment had pleased him on some level, “People are a little absurd, that’s what makes everyone unique.”

“It isn’t people.”

“Well, neither are you, strictly speaking, but I try not to hold that against you."

Komaeda shifted restlessly against his back, a soft mewl of pain almost smothered to silence against his hair as Naegi used his momentary distraction to slip the key from his hand.

He'd known he would, but he doesn't make any effort to stop him.

Instead he turned on his heel to find a convenient stretch of floor on which to set his burden.

Arguing further would simply be a waste of time.

He didn’t wake when he set him down, just turned, shifted sleepily onto his side, curling in on himself a bit as if he were trying to hold onto whatever warmth he'd left to him.

Komaeda Nagito.

He was...

Was...

The world dissolved into static and darkness and then he was suddenly out on the island again, striding up the bridge that arched between their island and the next beneath the blistering heat of the midday sun. Sweat stuck his shirt uncomfortably to his back as he swore under his breath and stomped up the slick red-painted wood towards the idiot sitting in the very center, at the very highest point, with his feet dangling over the edge. "What are you  _doing_?"

"Hm? Oh, Hinata, hello," he'd barely turned his head, but he didn't need to see his face to hear the wobble of a smile lilting in his voice. He was so  _weird_. "Fishing."

"Fishing?" He wasn't sure why he was surprised exactly, it wasn’t like he couldn’t see the little tackle box, the rod cradled in Komaeda’s pale hands or the extraordinarily long length of wire that fell from the end to vanish into the waves far below. It was perfectly obviously  _what_  he was doing.

But, somehow, he’d still expected him to say something else.

He edged a bit closer, peering over the side of the bridge and instantly regretted it as his stomach plummeted and he looked up instead feeling dizzy and light-headed. He'd seen the sunlight glittering against the wire, but it had been impossible to see where it joined the water and now he just wanted go sit down in the middle of the bridge, far, far from the edge.

It was a long, long,  _long_  way down. 

"Isn't this kind of dangerous?" He asked finally, frowning out at the water and then back at Komaeda who fiddled with the little crank, his bare feet kicking through the air, for all appearances completely oblivious to the fact that all it would take was a single unexpected jerk to send him flying right off the edge.

"Oh... probably," he commented, carelessly. So not oblivious, though that didn’t really make the situation any  _better_ , if anything it just made it worse. "It’s fine though, you really shouldn’t worry about trash like me, though it makes me a little happy that you do even if I’m not worth it.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to ignore the heat burning in his cheeks. “It’s not like I  _want_  to worry about you. It’d just be trouble for everyone if you died doing something stupid like this.” 

“ _Oh_ , that makes sense,” he replied frowning as he turned away to look back at the ocean, fingers fiddling nervously over the reel, worrying it this way and that. “It should be fine then, I won't die here. I'm lucky, you see. So even if I fell, I’m sure it would all work out somehow."

He huffed a sigh, sitting down tentatively beside him only to have Komaeda turn on him with wide eyes and a faintly horrified expression. "Wh-what are you  _doing_?"

"Huh?" He'd startled. He hadn't expected that at all. Usually Komaeda was almost thankful when he... he... he was already scrambling to his feet, unsettled by the sudden rejection.

It wasn't like he  _wanted_  to hang out with him or anything.

His sudden interest in fishing just seemed really... fishy, was all.

He groaned at his own lameness, pausing halfway to his feet and turning his attention back to Komaeda with a grimace. "Sorry, I just... Do you want me to go?"

"No!" He exclaimed, flustered, reaching out to grab him as if he intended to yank him back down beside him, but losing his grip on the pole in the process and immediately turning back make a grab for it, leaning out into the open air as the pole tipped off his lap and fell.

"Watch it!" He yelped, snatching at Komaeda’s jacket and yanking backwards, panicked, because for a second it had seemed like all that flailing about would send him right over the edge.

They both watched in silence as the pole plummeted to the water below.

“Oh,” Komaeda murmured, sitting back, frowning and not quite looking at him. "No, I just... I'm... I... it's dangerous.”

"That's what I just said, wasn't it?" He groaned, flopping back against the warm boards of the bridge. The adrenaline of the moment was already fading, leaving him shaky and uncertain. “You’re not  _that_  damn lucky. If you want to fish, do it somewhere safer.”

"No, that’s not..."

He heard the rustle of clothes and blinked his eyes open as the warmth of the sun was interrupted by a sudden shadow. Komaeda was hovering over him, blocking out the sun as he stared down at him with the strangest look on his face, almost frantic. "I...  _Hinata_ … will you kill me? Can you do it here? This would be a really nice place to die and there's no one around. You could push me off and no one would ever know." 

He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face, "This again? Seriously? I just saved your stupid life, didn’t I? I'm not going to kill you."

"But I'm sure you could get away with it, if it was you..."

"No, Komaeda. I just… ugh… what is  _wrong_  with you? I don't care if I could get  _away_  with it, I don’t want to  _do it_.”

“But…”

“No! I will not kill you on a bridge. I will not kill you in a fridge. I do not care if you say it’s okay! I don't want you to die that way. Or any way. So just... stop saying things like that!"

Komaeda’s face was very, very red.

And his lips were trembling in something that couldn't seem to decide whether it wanted to be a smile or a frown.

"You’re such a good person, Hinata. You really shouldn't be so kind to trash like me, I don’t-”

“Stop hovering over me when you’re saying stuff like that, it’s creeping me out,” he grumbled, face too hot as he tried to sit up only to stop when he realized Komaeda wasn’t moving back at all and they were suddenly way too close.

So close that he could feel the startled warmth of Komaeda’s breath gusting against his cheek, smell his stupid mango-scented shampoo.

Where had he even  _gotten_  mango shampoo?

“Komaeda?”

“Hm?”

“Can you move back so I can get up?”

“Hm? Oh!” Komaeda scrambled back and he cursed, snagging him by his t-shirt and gripping as hard as he could to keep him from panicking himself right back over the edge of the bridge.

“Dammitohmygodwouldyoupleasepayattentiontowhereyoureat!”

“Oh, that was lucky,” Komaeda replied, laughing awkwardly because he was simply the worst.

The  _worst_.

 _The absolute_   _worst_.

“I hate you so much right now,” he grumbled, keeping his hold on Komaeda’s shirt as he clamored awkwardly to his feet. “That’s it. No more bridges for you. Let’s go find some lunch.”

“Oh, but my box…”

“Leave it.”

“But that’s littering....”

“No, it’s not, I’ll come back and get it later.”

“But…”

“No. Leave it. I’ll take responsibility for it. It’s  _fine_.”

“But my shoes…”

“You’re  _lucky_ , aren’t you?" He snapped, his heart still beating way too fast as he dragged him down the bridge back towards the hotel. "Maybe you’ll trip over a spare pair on our way back to the hotel. I’ll bring yours back to you later.”

“But, Hinata….”

“ _Later_.”

It wasn’t until they passed Ibuki halfway back to the hotel that he’d realized his fingers were still caught in the front of Komaeda’s shirt, crumpling the white fabric against his sweaty palm.

“Oy! Oy! And what’s going on  _here_  then,  _hm_?” Ibuki called, practically bouncing up the sand to fall into step with them.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, dropping his hold and wiping his damp hand against his pants. “It’s nothing. Komaeda was just being an idiot and now we’re going to get some lunch.”

She nodded sagely, “Ah, Ibuki understands, relationships are hard work on an empty stomach. Ibuki will come too!”

“Great,” he replied dryly, pretty sure she had the wrong idea, but too exhausted by the idea of correcting her to bother.

Anyway it was easier to smile with Ibuki slipping between them, rattling off ideas for titles for some new song she’d been working on as they walked past the hotel gates.

Easier not too pay too much attention or be too bothered when Komaeda slipped off towards his cabin instead of following them to the dining room. Easier to ignore the way his stomach tightened when it took Komaeda far longer than it should have to show up for lunch afterwards.

It wasn’t like it was his  _job_  to babysit him.

He was a teenager not a toddler and he'd managed this long on his own. 

He just didn't like the idea of not knowing what he was up to, that was all.

It always made him nervous.

And if he lingered longer than he absolutely had to over his lunch, stirring his salad back and forth and poking at the tomatoes for almost an hour, no one seemed to notice. Not even Nanami who had come in to sit beside him and eat a distracted lunch in between rounds of whatever fighting game she was currently playing. 

Finally Komaeda had come stumbling through the door laughing at something a red-faced Mikan had said, still barefoot, hair limp and plastered against his head and neck and face as if he’d just stepped out of the shower.

He scowled at him as Komaeda settled across from him with a tiny plate of fruit and the ghost of a smile quirking his lips, “You’re still not wearing shoes.” 

“I only have the one pair,” Komaeda replied, popping a grape in his mouth. “And the sandals, but the strap on the sandals broke which was probably lucky because I'm a little clumsy in sandals.”

“Fine, I’ll go get your stupid shoes,” he’d sighed, pushing to his feet.

He blinked back to awareness to find himself standing in the middle of the road on tremulous legs in front of the bridge to the central island.

In the dark.

Alone.

It was raining.

It had been raining for a long time and no time at all.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

There was somewhere he was supposed to be.

Somewhere he needed to go.

But he couldn't remember where.

And he couldn't remember why.

These were essential questions.

It was necessary to establish these things. 

Nothing in his life makes any sense anymore.

His name was Hinata Hajime.

This was what he knew:

  * Nothing.
  * More Nothing.
  * Absolutely Nothing.
  * Colossal Amounts of Nothing.



He didn't know where he was.

Didn't know if he was crazy or sane. 

Whether he was still dreaming or still stuck in her game.

Whether he was sleeping or whether these were the last mad sparks of a dying brain.

He didn't know if this Komaeda had been real or if he was just a figment of his imagination.

Nothing made sense.

 _He_ didn't make sense, not even to himself.

But sometimes Komaeda had said his name as if it were  _important_ , as if they were something they'd never been.

That more often the way he'd said it had seemed bitter, mocking,  _mean_.

He remembered watching Komaeda disappear, swallowed up by the darkness at the end of the hall.

He remembers not reaching out to stop him when he had a chance.

That even when he'd finally bothered to pursue him, he'd been nowhere to be found, as if he'd simply ceased to exist between one moment and the next.

It had felt like a punishment.

It still felt like a punishment.

He remembered the terror of inching through absolute darkness, of the water, of those unwanted hands brushing against him and the breathless relief of hearing Komaeda’s voice in the dark.

Komaeda's quiet words and the touch of a hand against his own.

That horrifying realization, the agony of fingernails scrapping across his forearm and then…

And then….

That buzzing in his head again, like a hundred wasps brushing rough, frantic wings against his brain.

That terrible ache… the same as it had been on the beach.

And he’d… there was… there was…  _something_ … something he needed to remember.

And it was right there, right _there_ and so obvious, so glaringly, painfully obvious, and yet every time he reached for it, it skittered away like a cockroach fleeing the light.

There was something there, some connection he could just barely feel…

Something…

If he could just reach…

And suddenly he wasn't standing in the road anymore.

Instead he was somewhere else.

The smell of sanitizer and blood, cool tile beneath him.

The hospital.

He was in the hospital.

He recognized the on-call room even though he’d only really seen it a few times, only slept there once. 

But none of that mattered.

Not really.

Because he was there.

Lying on the floor, still as death, just out of reach.

His hair a matted, tangled, blood-stained mess that obscured his features.

"Komaeda," he was sure he whispered the word, certain, but there was nothing, no sound at all.

He felt the shape of the word on his lips, but the world was silent.

Still.

There was no rain, no breath, no nothing.

He couldn't even tell if Komaeda was dead or alive.

He was so pale and still.

And there was just...

So.

Much.

 _Blood_.

Smeared across the floor, soaked into the once pristine white of his borrowed shirt, scattered in specks and careless smears all down his pale, bare legs.

“Where the hell are your freaking pants?” He whispered, demanded, even though he knew it wouldn't do any good. Even though there was still no sound to carry his irritation across the space between them.

It was a silly thing to be annoyed by.

He knew that.

He knew.

But it was easier to be annoyed.

Komaeda shifted, a sudden burst of silent movement, curling his knees up against his chest.

The wave of relief that rolled through him was immediate and inescapable.

He released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding into the silence, his face warm, almost feverish.

For a moment he'd thought....

It didn't matter.

Komaeda's hair fell away from his face as he turned his head, staring through him.  His eyes were rimmed with red, shadows like bruises beneath, skin pale and blotchy red as if he'd been crying.

He looked exhausted and awful and somehow undeniably real.

And all that momentary relief he'd felt was trampled beneath the need to reach him.

Because he wasn't  _okay_.

Because he was  _here_.

He was  _real_.

They both were.

He was so _stupid_.

So stupid not to have seen it before now.

“Komaeda!” He tried again, but there was still no sound, just silence complete and absolute.

He slapped his hands against the floor, pulled against whatever was holding him in place, keeping him achored, unable to cross the small distance separated them, kept him from grabbing and just shaking the hell out of him. He might not know where all that blood had come from but the last thing Komaeda should have been doing was just laying there and letting whatever wounds he had _bleed_.  

He looked really, really bad.

Worse than he'd looked on the bridge or on the beach or in the diner.

Like he'd given up.

He scrapped his hands over the floor.

The blood was slick, slippery and warm beneath his fingers.

He could feel it.

Feel him.

His breath caught in his throat and he reached out again, fingernails scrapping against smooth tile, struggling for purchase and rustling the damp, bloodstained papers that were scattered around him like soggy oversized confetti.

His fingers were so close, so close, but he remained just out of reach. 

“Komaeda! Get up!” He tried again, but there was still something holding him back, weighing him down.

It felt like he should be able to reach, like he might be able to if he just… if just pushed a little harder, lunged a little farther, a little faster, if he could _just_ ….

His ears popped, sudden and viciously painful, and sound flooded in to fill the void, the machine gun fire of rain against the roof and the grumble of distant thunder and Komaeda's harsh, wheezing breaths all made far too loud after the absolute silence that had come before. The sudden cacophony was so loud that it took him a minute to realize, to understand that beneath all that he can hear the mumble of Komaeda’s voice, murmuring words he can't quite make sense of and laughing to himself.

And...

And....

He could hear something else too.

 _Someone_  else.

Someone scratching at the door, calling Komaeda's name again and again, asking him, _begging_ him to open the door.

And he remembers fingers crawling over his tongue, thrusting down his throat and shudders, gagging, as he sees Komaeda raise his head just a little bit, gaze clouded.

And he can almost see the shape of his thoughts, taste desperation in the air, and before he’s made a decision to do so he's lunging forward again, throwing all his weight forward, still not quite able to reach him, words a desperate snarl in his throat, "Don’t be an idiot!"

And he him startle just a little, his head lifting, eyes wide and surprised as they dart around the room, sweeping past him.

He can see the shape of his name on his lips as he searches for him.

As he looks for  _him_.

Something inside him breaks open, _bleeds_.

He woke on the road, rough pavement beneath him and rain pounding down against his skin and the chill of both felt like a slap in the face after the strange, humid warmth of that room.

"No!" He scrambled to his feet only to tip over and fall again, legs numb and useless once more. 

He would have vomited if there’d been anything to left in him.

As it was he just heaved and choked, bracing his hands against the knees of his borrowed pants as he struggled to regain some grasp on coherency.

What the hell  _was_  that?

“What the fuck-“ He choked between heaves, tears stinging his eyes, just to hear the words out loud.

It didn’t make him feel any less completely insane, but…  _but_. 

That had been _him_.

Confused and scattered and scared and  _hurt_  and so obviously  _him_.

Komaeda was at the hospital.

He’d known that already, remembered it vaguely from their conversation in the dark, but… that hadn't...

That had been so easy to write off, but this...

It had felt so _real_.

Laughter echoed around him. It was a terrible sound, a rough barking, biting sound that sounded nowhere near sane and it he let his head fall down against his knees, because he couldn’t seem to make himself stop.

It was just  _so_ …  _ridiculous_. 

What the hell was he even  _doing_?

Diners and dancing and kissing and blowjobs and man-eating puddles and music and danger and hospitals and a head full of scenes he could barely remember even now and wasn't sure belonged to him at all.

And now he was... what?

Before things had worked just like the real world or near enough and now...

Now _nothing_ made sense.

What next? Would he grow wings? Sprout antlers? 

It was like his brain had latched onto the idea of this being real and stirred in every bad science fiction movie he'd ever seen and run with it.

Maybe it was just his way of coping.

Maybe he just couldn't deal with the things he wanted or dreamed about and this was just... a way to make it okay.

Make it okay to be not okay, but....

Maybe nothing was real or everything was.

Maybe it was all a dream.

Or maybe Komaeda was really trapped in a room at the hospital and MIkan was scratching away at the door like a demented cat.

What choice did he have?

This entire… dream, nightmare, simulation, hallucination, whatever it was... maybe it wasn’t real.

Maybe he just felt guilty.

Maybe he was just… just running after a ghost, letting himself be led around by the nose again and again.

Maybe he just couldn't bring himself to let him go.

And if it wasn't real... then wouldn't matter what he did.

It wouldn't matter if he saved himself or Komaeda or....

Had that really been  _Mikan_?

She'd sounded so... weird, wrong, _broken_.

_Fuck._

If it wasn't real, it wouldn't matter.

He could do anything he wanted or nothing at all and it wouldn't matter.

Eventually he'd wake up and and just have to deal with the fact that he was a terrible person who had terrible dreams.

That he was probably fucked up in some horrible unfixable way.

But if it was real....

If it  _was_  real.

If they were all still stuck.

_Trapped._

If it was and he just left things as they were.... 

He remembered what it had felt like.

The way she'd crawled inside him.

How _good_ it had felt.

How Komaeda had saved him from it, from all the awful things he’d wanted to do and be. 

How could he not try and do the same for him?

Maybe he was just chasing the ghost of unfulfilled desires and maybe it was… stupid.

Maybe _he_ was stupid or gullible or ridiculous for being so eager to buy into the possibility.

Maybe he should just fucking sit there in the middle of the damn road until he finally woke up but…

_But._

But he could still hear Komaeda’s voice in the dark whispering, “I’m really glad I got to see you.”

And he was too.

He hadn’t… he hadn’t said it back, but he _was_ … he was really  _glad_.

For all the terrible things and the confusing things and the weirdness, he was glad he’d gotten to see him again.

And maybe that was stupid, maybe all this was just a fever dream or nightmare or a hallucination or… whatever.

Maybe it was and he was an idiot for going along, but… he wanted a chance to tell him that.

To apologize for everything he’d done and everything he hadn’t.

To yell at him for everything _he’d_ done and everything he hadn’t.

But most of all, he just wanted a chance to help him.

Even if it were only in his head.

Or maybe he just wanted to be needed.

Maybe he was the one who needed help.

But, in the end, maybe that didn’t matter so much.

Because if there was any chance, any chance at all that he, that _they_ , were still trapped there, he still needed to try.

Whether it was for pure or selfish reasons didn’t really matter very much at all.

Maybe it would later.

But that was later.

Later he could curse himself for being a selfish bastard or an idiot.

Later he could have another total meltdown about everything he’d done and throw himself off a bridge or something.

But for now… for now he needed to get off his dead ass and get to that stupid hospital.

Maybe Komaeda would hate him when he knew.

But that was okay.

For now, he just needed to get to him.

To _them_ , if Mikan was there too.

He'd wanted to go home with them.

With all of them.

And maybe he still could.

His name was Hinata Hajime.

And he still doesn’t know anything.

Not for certain.

But, even if it was just for a moment, that part hadn't really mattered very much at all.


	18. Thick and Fast They Came at Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...It was time to talk of...

_“He blamed every fucker available excepting, of course, the one who was actually to blame, the one sitting in his saddle and getting colder, hungrier, and more lost with every unpleasant moment. ‘Shit!’ he roared at nothing.”  
_ \- Joe Abercrombie, Red Country

 **DAY THREE**  
-continued-  
**+++**

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“War….acuation…orde…evel…four….ecto….t…thirt….arantin….minent.”

Teruteru lifted his head from his knees, blinking blearily at the jukebox, “What was…?”

But the jukebox was silent except for a soft clicking noise and the gentle, constant hum of electricity.

Not even a hint of static.

He shifted his tired gaze back to the faded image of the girl at the bar, “Did you say something?”

Nothing but silence answered him.

Not that he’d been expecting anything.

Not really.

Still… he could have sworn he’d heard _somethin-_

_Somethin-_

_Somethin-_

_Somethin-_

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_Sexy._

She sat on a stool, leaning casually back against the bar.

Her long, long legs were crossed elegantly at the knee. Her thighs were smooth and pale against the pleated edge of her skirt. 

He could almost imagine them wrapped around his waist.

Imagine pressing into her.

Moist and warm.

Trying to grab those thighs, sink his fingers into that plump pale flesh only to find his fingers passing through something as insubstantial as air to find there’d never been anyone there at all, just another figment of an overactive imagination.

After all, she couldn’t be real.

She and her beautiful legs were translucent as a sheet of foggy glass.

He’d been able to see the blur of the bright red vinyl of the stool and the checkerboard pattern of the counter behind them as clear as day through their milk pale sheen.

Still, she’d been really sexy.

And he had been so….

Ever since…

_Since._

He’d swallowed around the sudden rise of panic tightening his throat with tension.

_Pu-pu._

He’d whimpered, a whiff of burnt hair caught in his nostrils like a warning, there and gone in a moment.

Leaving him shivering as he continued to stare at her, at the edge of that short, short skirt.

At how that sweater clung so tight across her tits.

She was really….

He’d licked his lips, wincing as his tongue dragged across chapped, blistered flesh.

It ached.

Everything  _ached_.

One of the remaining blisters on his palms had popped beneath the press of his anxious fingers and he whimpered again, closing his eyes and clawing desperately for a calm he couldn’t find, couldn’t feel.

The pain had become familiar.

An old friend.

And he… he didn’t have many friends.

Never had.

Even before.

But that had been fine.

He’d never been lonely.

_Pu-pu._

After all, he’d always had his ma-

He’d always ha-

He’d always ha-

He’d always ha-

  
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He’d never been lonely.

The other kids had always been so  _immature_  and he’d always been too focused.

He hadn’t had time for friends.

He’d had his dreams, after all.

His eyes had always been locked on the horizon, on the future.

A future where his mam-

Where hi-

Where hi-

Where hi-

  
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His eyes had always been locked on the horizon, on the future.

He’d swallowed hard over the lump forming in his throat. Ignored the queasy, uneasy feeling brewing in his gut as sweat dripped down his back, cold, and he shivered violently.

“Come here often?” He asked her instead, his voice cracking and rough with disuse.

She didn’t reply.

No surprise there.

Her expression, just like the rest of her, had been frozen in place since the last burst of static, that last frantic flurry of movement that had turned her around on the stool as the translucent image of Hinata had jittered across the room in the blink of an eye to set the bells on the door tinkling again.

Her lips had been parted in a grin, stretched wide to reveal white, white teeth.

So wide that it almost seemed like she had more teeth than she should.

Like she could have eaten him alive with a look.

But, of course, she wasn’t looking at him.

She wasn’t looking at anything.

Not really.

_Pu-pu._

Or, maybe, if she was, it was something beyond him, beyond the diner, something beyond what he could see and hear and feel.

Something beyond that fading image of Hinata that lingered at the diner door still, barely visible, just a sketchy afterimage burned into the air, his usually placid features caught in a snarl, his translucent fingers dipping through the rain-streaked glass into the dark of the night beyond.

As he’d watched, that image had continued to fade until there had been barely anything left at all beyond the suggestion of color, the vague impression of lines.

A dirty smudge obscuring the air.

Until she was all that remained.

Almost as clear at she’d been when she’d first appeared there.

Like her image was somehow more substantial than his had been, burned in more throughly, like her presence had more  _weight_. 

Hinata was gone, but she remained, a nameless figure frozen in time and space, so still that even the memory of her jerky, inconsistent motion seemed unreal.

Like something he’d dreamed up.

Her image was just there, trapped like a fly in amber, all shade and no substance.

Her teeth were the only thing that hadn’t faded at all.

They had seemed so brilliantly white… like the Cheshire Cat’s smile, hovering disembodied in the air.

As if they were the only thing about her that was real.

She looked so  _familiar_.

_Pu-pu._

Like a dream he’d had a thousand times.

Or a nightmare… maybe.

He wasn’t sure.

He wa-

He wa-

He wa-

  
**[ERROR_MEMORY_HARDWARE (0x30B)]**  
….loading….

He was cowering on the floor, under one of the tables in the restaurant, but he could still smell the thick, heavy, cloying stench of smoke. Feel the sting of it in his eyes, the heat of distant flames against his skin.

The hotel was  _burning_.

And in an instant he couldn’t feel the boards beneath him anymore. Instead he was there again, flying through the air again, helpless, dangling, the roar of the helicopter’s blades and the wind in his face, catching at his clothes. Then there was that terrible bubbling sound and the blast of sudden heat searing his skin as he screamed for help, for mercy, for  _anyone_.

_Pu-pu._

For his Mama.

His poor Mama.

Who he’d never see again.

Who might already be….

The way everything had seemed to go numb in those last moments, how he’d almost been able to feel nothing at all… nothing as he choked, gasped, as his lungs ached for oxygen that wasn’t there, as the heat seared down his throat and everything went bla-

Bla-

Bla-

Bla-

  
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Ceiling.

He was lying on his back staring up at a ceiling.

The floor was cold.

Hard.

Ha-

Ha-

Ha-

  
**[ERROR_MEMORY_HARDWARE (0x30B)]**  
….loading…. 

He was… empty.

Completely empty.

A dish washed clean.

He wa-

He wa-

He wa-

  
**[ERROR_MEMORY_HARDWARE (0x30B)]**  
….loading.…

He woke on the kitchen floor and it had come back in a rush, pouring in to fill him up with terror. Not all of it, not even most of it, but the last of it. The horror of the volcano, of the rope around his ankles, of dangling, of being carried, being lowered, of crying for his mother, then… agony.

But it was still… distant.

Like something that had happened to someone else.

Like someone else’s problem.

Just a terrible dream.

And he’d breathed a sigh of relief even as his heart raced, as he swallowed hard against the rise of panic, because he was… he was  _fine_.

He was  _alive_ and he was  _fine_ and it had all just been just a terrible….

And then he’d tried to sit up.

Tried to sit up and the pain had been  _everywhere_.

_Pu-pu._

In every muscle, across every last inch of skin, white hot and blinding.

_Mama!_

Someone was sobbing.

_Please!_

Someone was screaming.

_Help!_

The world was so, so loud and full of agony and he couldn’t breathe.

He coul-

He coul-

He coul-

He coul-

 **[ERROR_WRITE_FAULT (0x1D)]**  
….loading….

Ceiling.

He was lying on his back staring up at a ceiling.

The floor was cold.

Hard.

Ha-

Ha-

Ha-

  
**[ERROR_WRITE_FAULT (0x1D)]**  
….loading….

He was....

Was....

Was....

Wa-

Wa-

Wa-

  
**[ERROR_WRITE_FAULT (0x1D)]**  
….loading.…

He woke up.

He was lying on his back and things came back faster this time.

Waking.

Moving.

Burning.

The volcano and ropes tight, so tight around his ankles that he if it weren't for the occasional spill of pain he would have doubted that his feet still existed at all. He’d dangled upside down, the blood rushing to his head, dread and horror and fear strangling him before the heat of the volcano ever touched him. 

He was on the floor of the kitchen.

If he moved, it would hurt.

It would hurt.

_Pu-pu._

But he didn’t have to move.

He could just stay there.

Stay there until he woke up.

Woke up from this terrible dream.

So he didn't move.

Didn't move at all.

Just laid there staring up at the ceiling.

He fell asleep, eventually, exhausted.

And he woke up.

Eventually.

Still exhausted.

He was still on the floor.

It was cold.

It was hard.

He stared up at the ceiling, unmoving, waiting to wake up, to really wake up, clinging stubbornly to the hope that he would.

Eventually.

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed or if any time had passed at all.

He didn’t get thirsty.

He didn’t get hungry.

He didn’t have to take a piss.

He didn’t think about anything.

His mind was empty.

_Pu-pu._

Time passed.

Or maybe it didn't.

There was no way to tell.

There were things… things that lingered at the edge of his thoughts, shadows flickering just at the edges of consciousness, but he couldn’t touch them, couldn’t reach them, didn’t want to.

He didn’t move at all.

He didn’t have to.

There was no reason to.

He fell asleep.

He woke up again.

He was still on the floor.

Minutes passed like that.

Hours.

Days.

_Pu-pu._

Or maybe they didn’t.

Either way, nothing changed.

The world was silent around him and he was silent too.

Sometimes he cried, but he couldn’t say why.

The tears fell unbidden.

He was no one and he was nothing and the world was empty and so was he.

No on-

No on-

No on-

  
**[ERROR_NO_MORE_FILES (0x12)]**  
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He’d found the diner on maybe the third or fourth night after he’d started wandering around the island and for the longest time he’d just stood there staring at it, his heart beating way too fast, fists knotting in his apron as he stared up at the sign.

He couldn’t even imagine that the similarity to his own outfit wasn’t on purpose.

That stupid, no good bear….

He could almost hear it's laughter.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

Hadn’t it been enough that he’d deep-fried him in a damn volcano?

Wasn’t it punishment enough that every inch of his skin felt as if it had been flayed raw?

That even moving was pain?

That the feel of sunlight on his skin was torture?

Wasn’t it enough?

Wasn’t this place enough?

_Wasn’t it?_

But no matter how long he’d stared at it… that stupid sign remained.

Glowing bright in the dark.

Mocking him.

Like he didn’t know that he….

_Right._

But that’s what he was, wasn’t it?

That’s what he’d been.

What he still was.

What he’d always be.

A  _pig_.

A  _greedy_ pig who'd dreamed too big and wanted too much.

He’d wanted to be someone.

To be admired.

To be desired.

To be someone she could be proud to call her son.

He’d wanted to be famous.

He’d wanted to stand on top of the world.

He’d wanted to make food so delicious that people would do anything, anything at all for just a  _taste_ of it.

He’d wanted to be  _wanted_.

For his talent, yes, but for himself too.

_Pu-pu._

He’d wanted to know what it was like to take and to be taken.

He’d wanted to… to...  _fuck_  on the floor of his own kitchen after a good meal.

To suckle at a tit or a cock.

To know what it felt like to have someone slide inside him.

Or maybe both at once.

Wanted to press his face between a girl’s legs and pull moans from her lips, feel the burn of fingernails against his shoulders as he teased her over the edge.

Wanted to lose himself in the heat and fervor of someone’s mouth.

To feel strong legs wrapped around him.

Feel gentle arms holding him tight.

He'd just… he'd just wanted  _everything_.

He'd wanted to be  _loved_.

To be  _wanted_.

Was that really so bad?

Was it really so much to ask?

To have someone to hold his hand.

Someone to talk with late into the night.

Someone who would try his dishes and give him honest criticism.

Someone who would help him be  _better_  than he was.

To have someone he could bring home to meet his mother.

He’d just wanted….

He’d just  _wanted_.

_Everything._

He’d wanted to open Hanamura Diner locations all over the country, all over the world so that his mother would never have to worry, so that he could share her cooking,  _their_ cooking, with everyone.

He’d wanted to see her smile.

To let her live a life of ease.

To help her.

To help himself.

He’d wanted it  _all_.

He’d wanted and he’d wanted and he’d  _wanted_.

He'd made himself a stranger, polished and primped and poised to face the world with flare. He'd lost his accent, dressed up his back story, done everything he could to assure he'd be taken seriously, to assure his success.

For Mama.

_Pu-pu._

It had all been....

For her... hadn't it?

He was a good son... wasn't he?

Wasn't he?

Was-

Was-

Was-

  
**[ERROR_NOACCESS (0x3E6)]**  
….loading….

It hadn't been his fault.

None of it had been his fault.

It was Komaeda.

It was all Komaeda.

It had all been Komaeda’s fault.

 _He_  was the one to blame.

_Pu-pu._

That dirty no good traitorous... pig.

He’d never have done it if it weren’t for him.

_Never._

He was a good person.

He was.

He  _was_.

It wasn’t his fault.

It was-

It was-

It was-

  
**[ERROR_PATH_BUSY (0x94)]**  
….loading….

He’d been Icarus flying too close to the sun, the molten drippings of his hope scalding his skin as his ambition sent him plummeting back to earth.

And he’d… lost everything.

Lost everything before he’d even really begun.

Lost everything the moment he’d opened that letter.

The moment he’d given into temptation and accepted their offer.

It was their fault.

Their fault for offering him the world.

If that letter had never come....

He’d always been  _greedy_.

If he’d just been satisfied with what he had.

If he’d just…

But he hadn’t been.

Of course, he hadn't been.

No one was.

It wasn't his fault.

Anyone would have done the same.

Anyone would have.

It  _wasn’t_ his _fault_.

He just... wanted to be... more.

And now all his dreams tasted like ash, gone soft and bitter on his tongue.

He’d only wanted….

He’d only  _wanted_.

_Pu-pu._

When he’d been young… too young to be a help in the kitchen and too old to be anything but a nuisance to the customers, he used to sit in the corner of the kitchen while Mama cooked and Ren and Miyumi flitted in and out of the kitchen carrying steaming plates and delivering fresh orders during the dinner rush.

He’d mostly just been expected to stay out of the way so he’d sat there in that corner flipping through Mama’s recipe books.

She’d never had the bound, fancy, expensive sort. The sort with the glossy pages peppered with images of perfectly lit, perfectly displayed meals like he’d seen in the shops.

Nothing like those books had ever made their way into the Hanamura kitchen.

No, all her cookbooks had been old and handmade, loose leaf papers shoved haphazardly into a book with crumbling binding. Papers that were thick with lines of kanji he couldn’t read and katakana that formed words he couldn’t yet make sense of, but every few pages there was a paperclip in the corner holding fading pictures to the page of the various dishes.

There was never any particular order to them, no theme, no rhyme or reason, as if they’d just been added as they’d been remembered or thought of.

Desserts and meat pies, soups and sandwiches, chicken and fish on skewers or laid out across beds of rice.

Heaping piles of fried chicken.

Salads with bright garnishes.

Recipes for cookies laid out beside recipes for unagi and pasta and pork belly and scones.

French.

Japanese.

Korean.

Jamaican.

Chinese.

Italian.

Hundreds of different recipes from all over the world, piled together haphazardly in those old, frail pages.

So many delicious looking dishes.

He used to dream about those pictures.

About making all those dishes and serving them to famous people, important people, yes, but also just the pictures themselves.

The stiff feel of polaroid plastic and the strange glossy, rough texture of thick development paper. Sometimes the edges were worn or frayed from years of rough handling, the pages stained with the occasional splatter of grease.

Spots that made the thin, cheap, aging paper almost translucent.

"Mama, you should let me rebind these; make them nicer so they'll last."

He'd asked again and again over the years and she'd always just laughed.

"Teru,” she’d always said, smiling at him so sweetly, fondly, wiping sweat from her brow. “Things aren't supposed to last forever. If you want the recipes just write them down for yourself somewhere new. No need to waste money on something like that."

But he could always tell that she loved them.

Could see it in the way she caressed the pages, so gently, as if she were thanking them or perhaps apologizing that she hadn’t taken better care with them.

The way she always seemed to know exactly where the recipe she was looking for was; as if they were ordered in a way only she could fully understand.

He'd always promised himself he'd have them rebound someday.

_Someday._

_Pu-pu-pu._

Later, so much later, he’d wake in his bed at Hope’s Peak to sweat-soaked sheets and a tearstained pillow, to sobs that would shake him until his alarm went off minutes or hours later. And his dreams were always of those pictures.

Of watching them crinkle and curl and blacken as they burned.

Eventually he’d drag himself from bed and shuffle off to the shower.

Scour his skin with soap and a rough sponge.

Wash his hair twice, three times.

Nothing helped.

Everything had still smelt of burnt paper and plastic.

Himself.

His blankets.

His food.

The pretty girls and boys who sat around him in class.

Everything.

Everyone.

Burnt and burning.

_Pu-pu-pu._

Because he’d been greedy.

Because he’d wanted it all.

He’d wanted his dreams and Mama.

He’d wanted money and fame.

He’d wanted food and sex.

He’d wanted girls and boys.

He’d wanted everything all at once and he….

He-

He-

He-

  
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It had still been there the next evening and the next.

The diner.

The sign.

That dull ache of frustration he’d felt as he’d glared up through the darkness at that tawdry, blurry, neon monstrosity.

The way it seemed to taunt him with its very presence as his head spun and his chest tightened and his skin felt like it was on fire even beneath the weak light of the moon.

Mean.

It was just…  _mean_.

Me-

Me-

Me-

 **[ERROR_WRITE_FAULT (0x1D)]  
** ….loading….

It had still been there the next evening.

The diner.

The sign.

_Pu-pu-pu._

That dull ache of frustration he’d felt as he’d glared up through the darkness at that tawdry, blurry, neon monstrosity.

The way it seemed to taunt him with its very presence as his head spun and his chest tightened and his skin felt like it was on fire even beneath the weak light of the moon.

Mean.

It was just…  _mean_.

Mean.

Me-

Me-

Me-

 **[ERROR_WRITE_FAULT (0x1D)]  
** ….loading….

It had still been there the next evening.

Diner.

Sign.

_Pu-pu-pu._

Pink and red lines glowing like jewels, like the embers of….

O-

O-

O-

 **[ERROR_NOACCESS (0x3E6)]  
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Grease fires weren’t like that.

Didn’t glow like that.

Grease fires were orange and red, flaring bright and wild, out of control even without the addition of water to allow them to blow out, to expand, to allow the fire to feed and expand and flourish. To catch hungry flames against apron strings and old paper, to roar across counters and floors, consuming towels and paper napkins, famished, starved for fuel and insatiable, swallowing everything in its path….

He shivered, the chill in the air almost unbearable.

He could see the glow of neon even from the bridge.

There was no need to go any further than that.

And yet he always did.

Always slipped and slid across warm, damp wood as he made his careful, cautious way down the bridge to the island below, down the road and across the parking lot, to stand in silence as he stared up at that familiar, obnoxious glow.

Every night it was still there.

_Pu-pu-pu._

And every night it seemed brighter than the night before.

Was it a taunt?

A gift?

A punishment?

He wasn’t sure.

He wasn’t even sure that he  _wanted_  to know.

Whatever it was meant to be, it felt like it had been there, always, just waiting for him to find it.

And the more he thought about it…

The more he’d thought that, maybe, it had been.

That maybe it was supposed to be… a sign, some kind of warped reward for being  _good_ , for being brave enough or… or selfless enough or…  _something_.

Something he hadn’t been.

But now…

Seeing it like this….

Felt… cruel.

Like a reminder.

It was like a weight on his chest, a weight that made it tough to breathe, made it even tougher to get up off the floor each morning.

Made it more difficult to move and bend and just continue to exist in that lonely, silent place.

And yet… he’d still found himself coming back again and again to stare at it, to edge ever closer to it without ever going inside.

Even with the moonlight glinting off the windows he could see that the inside was… beautiful.

Perfect.

Pristine and untouched.

If he could ignore that stupid sign it almost felt like….

_Home._

Like he could walk through those doors and leave everything that had happened behind him, find himself fourteen again with neatly trimmed hair and a black school uniform, coming home to work an evening shift with Mama before they shut down for the night.

Like he could-

Like he could-

Like he could-

  
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It had been days, a week, maybe more, before he finally managed to work up the courage to enter.

When he’d pulled the door wide it was to the sharp striking of bells against glass that seemed to echo impossibly loud around him as he’d stepped inside. He’d jumped, gasped, startled by the sound, the first sound he’d heard in such a long time that hadn’t come from himself or the sea. Fingers clutched painfully at his apron, blisters straining, popping beneath the pressure as he let the door fall shut carelessly behind him.

The bells clanked with the sudden reversal of motion, but the sound was softer, gentler, this time… more like an afterthought than an announcement of presence.

As to the diner itself….

It hadn’t… it hadn’t really been anything like the Hanamura Diner had been, not really.

It had been gaudy and overdone. A thousand ideas of what should go into a dinner crammed into a space built for ten.

Everything had been shiny and bright like it had just been pulled from the packaging, like it had never been used, never felt a human touch. Even the vinyl on the seats of the counter stools had been pristine, glistening, as if they’d never been sat on.

The register till had stood open and empty as if it were waiting to be used.

No, it had been nothing like home.

Home had been… worn and warm, well-used and homey.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu._

He was sure everything there had been new once, but he’d never seen it. Everything had been worn and strained with years of use by the time he’d come along.

The island diner had been nothing like that. It was cool and sterile… like it wasn’t a place made for people.

Like it was just a… display model, a proof of concept. Less a functioning restaurant and more the idea of what a restaurant could be. Something to sell investors on the concept.

Style-wise… it kind of reminded him of American theme diners, but it still… there was still something about it that felt hopelessly familiar. Like he’d been there before, cooked in that kitchen, eaten in those booths, so it was… comfortable in a way that nowhere else on the island had ever been.

But that first night… he’d just stood there by the door, staring at it, taking it in.

But th-

But th-

But th-

  
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Maybe he’d fallen asleep just like that.

Wavering on aching feet in the entry waiting to be seated.

Or maybe he’d just left after a while, taken himself elsewhere to curl up and fall into a dreamless sleep… he couldn’t remember and it probably didn’t matter.

The next night he’d explored the interior.

Marveled at the lack of bathrooms, at the knob-less stove in the kitchen.

At how there were too many pots and not enough pans.

At how all the flatware was unbalanced and too heavy.

How the knives were all too dull.

It was like whoever had designed that place had never been in a real kitchen, had only even seen them on television, maybe. Had never used a knife or even held one in their hand.

The cutting boards were all plastic and cheap.

He could never use a kitchen like this.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu._

It wasn’t anything like the kitchen in the….

It wasn’t anything-

It wasn’t anything-

It wasn’t anything-

  
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He woke up on the floor of that kitchen each morning.

Every morning.

He always left as fast as he could, scrambled from the room with his heart in his throat every time. More than willing to brave the burn of sunlight to reach the main hotel lobby.

At least there he could  _breathe_.

At least there he could….

At leas-

At leas-

At leas-

  
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Ever since he’d managed to talk himself into breeching the door and slipping inside, he’d returned to the diner every evening without fail.

He’d stopped bothering with exploring the islands.

There hadn’t ever been any point to that anyway.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu._

There was no one else there.

He’d been abandoned.

He was alone.

Alone.

Each new island only seemed to give him a fresh rush of disappointment and an ever-growing list of deserted, empty places where he could while away the long solitary, dreary hours until exhaustion claimed him and he woke on the kitchen floor again.

And again.

And again.

So it had seemed better to just spend his nights at the diner, spend hours tucked into the red vinyl-covered booth seat in the back nearest the jukebox.

It made him feel bad, being there, sick and guilty and sad, but even that had still been better than all those other places.

Better than the stillness of the supermarket or the deserted farm, the beach where they’d played for those few hours before everything had gone to hell, the empty façade of the airport or, worst by far, the horror of the blood-splattered banquet hall.

For a while, he’d fooled himself into believing that maybe this was all just a bad dream, that any moment he might wake up at home or in his dorm room at Hope’s Peak or even just back on the island to find he’d dozed off in the restaurant and everything else had been just a terrible dream, but…

But.

He never did.

He never-

Neve-

Neve-

Neve-

  
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There was no one there.

There was no one anywhere.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu._

The first few nights he’d run all over the place, exhausted himself searching all day for someone, anyone, in the hope that it had all been just…

_Squish._

Just a big joke.

That it wasn’t, that none of it had happened, that he hadn’t….

_Squish._

He shivered against the chill in the air, pulling his knees in tighter against his chest as he stared out the window.

For the moment, he ignored the fading image lingering against the counter. Instead he chose to watch as rain pelted the glass and another bright flash of jagged lightning cut across the cloudy sky outside the diner window.

_Squish._

The only time he bothered to leave the diner at all anymore was when he had to.

When he fell asleep and woke up on the floor of the banquet hall kitchen.

He used to run.

Hadn’t he?

It seemed like he had.

At least at first.

As if the second he woke up to find his face pressed against those familiar tiles, panic would seize him and he'd scramble to his feet and hightail it for the hall.

He could almost remember what it felt like to slam into the wall, to ignore the pain that spiked through his hands, his joints as he tumbled full speed down the corridor, as he slammed through the fire doors and into the entry hall beyond.

He would just… run.

Run.

Straight out the building, tripping down the stairs towards the pool and sprawl exhausted across the sun-warmed cement beyond where the sun would sear across his bare skin and dozens or hundreds of blisters would pop upon impact, streaking his brain black with agony.

He’d wake up on the floor of the kitchen.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

And run.

Again.

Same thing.

Same result.

Shock and pain always delivered him back to that room, that pristine floor.

Over and over again.

Until he’d learned to stop running.

Un-

Un-

Un-

  
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He had watched Komaeda scrub it that morning.

Watched him strip off his coat and roll up his pants and drop to his knees to scrub the floors without compliant.

He’d cleaned the counters and utensils, but Komaeda… Komaeda had scrubbed down the floors, the larger appliances while he’d brought food over from the kitchen at the restaurant.

And if Komaeda had noticed the way he sometimes lingered longer than he had to, felt the weight of his gaze on his ass… well, he’d never said anything about it.

It wasn’t like he meant to watch him. He’d just made such a pretty picture, hair tugged back in a knot at the back of his neck as he’d worked, sweat sticking the pale of his t-shirt to his back and shoulders.

“I’m sorry that took so long. I’ll leave you to your work,” he’d commented when he’d finished up wiping down the fridge and tucked the towel over his shoulder.

“No, no, it’s fine, you did a great job,” he’d replied absentmindedly, only half paying attention because he’d been busy mixing up a marinade for his meat. 

“Oh, I, uh, thank you,” Komaeda began, stumbling over the words and he glanced up from his mixing bowl to find Komaeda’s face flushed, his gaze trained on the floor, a bright smile dancing across his lips. “Cleaning is… one of the only things I’m good at.”

There had been a dozen possible pick up lines he could have thrown out to play off that line, but… that smile stalled them all on his tongue.  It had just… it had been so bright and wide, but somehow it had….

It had just seemed kind of…  _sad_.

So, in the end, he hadn’t said anything at all and Komaeda had slipped away out into the hall with his cleaning supplies.

It had been the memory of that smile that had had him sneaking into the dining hall later that morning, a glass of water in hand to offer an excuse.

He wasn’t worried exactly… just… maybe a little…  _concerned_.

If not for that smile he’d probably never have known.

Never seen him taping the knife to the underside of the table.

Never have been tempted.

It was his fault.

All his fault.

That he was....

That he-

That he-

That he-

  
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Every morning he picked himself up off the floor slowly and methodically as if each day he’d spent there were an ache building up in his bones, slowing him down, gumming up his works until just sitting up was a Herculean task.

Still, every morning without fail, no matter how long it took to pull himself together, he'd still get to his feet and trudge off.

Because he couldn’t stay there.

Couldn’t stay in that building.

In that building where he’d….

Couldn't stay there with the stench of blood and raw meat still so heavy in the air.

Could-

Could-

Could-

  
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He’d returned to the diner again and again.

Night after night.

It wasn’t quite like home, but it reminded him of it a little and if he closed his eyes, squeezed them shut as tight as they would go, he could almost hear the clatter of dishes and the sizzle of pans in the kitchen. Like maybe if he opened his eyes at just the right moment he’d find Mama leaning through the little window from the back calling him to come help out.

Those had always been his favorite times.

Cooking with Mama in the kitchen of their little restaurant.

Because when she was cooking, Mama forgot all her other worries. Forgot about all those envelopes that arrived stamped with words like ‘final notice’ or ‘urgent’ in bright red ink.

Forgot about how sick she was or how easily she tired.

Forgot about Daddy and the funeral they still hadn’t been able to pay for.

Forgot about how much she worried about Ren and Miyumi out in the big world and so busy working they never came by to visit, just sent home money from time to time like that was any kind of substitute for their presence.

Forgot about the chain restaurant that had opened up down the road and how every day it seemed like they had fewer drop ins and like sometimes even their regulars didn’t show up for breakfast or lunch as often as they used to.

When she was cooking, Mama never seemed to remember to worry about any of those things.

When she was in the kitchen, all she ever worried about was if the fried rice was done just right or if she’d gotten the perfect sear on the fish.

She’d only ever cared about whether her food would make the customers smile., whether they’d want to come back and see them again.

Everything she made was delicious, but she always worried that it might not taste as good as it could if she’d only made that little bit of extra effort. 

It was silly, but it was what made her such a good cook.

Least that’s what he’d always thought.

Though he probably hadn’t told her that even though he should have.

There were a lot of things he should have told her.

A lot of things.

A lot.

But he’d….

There'd just… there’d always seemed like there would be time.

That there would always be next times and tomorrows.

She’d wanted him to go out and make something of himself, to share his gift with the world.

“You’re gonna be great,” she’d said to him with a smile when his acceptance letter had arrived, her rough hand against his cheek. “Don’t you worry about things here, your old Mama is tough, I'll be just fine. I'm so proud of you, Teru.”

And he….

She hadn’t cared about fame or money or looking good.

All she’d cared about was that they were  _happy_.

Even Ren and Miyumi.

When he was younger, before Hope’s Peak, he used to get so mad every time they’d send a letter or call with excuses as to why they weren’t gonna be able to make it back for this holiday or that. He’d be so angry and she’d always just smile.

“But they sound so  _happy_ , Teru, like they’re really enjoying their lives,” she’d say, smiling even as she dashed a sleeve across her cheeks to wipe away the damp. “What more could a Mama want for her babies?”

She'd been so proud of them.

So proud.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

And he'd been...  _embarrassed_.

Embarrassed to be himself, embarrassed to be from some little village in the middle of nowhere, embarrassed to be Hanamura Teruteru.

Embarrassed to be her son.

He’d been so… _scared_.

Hope’s Peak was just so damn…  _fancy_ , so  _prestigious_. Going there was practically a guarantee that you would succeed in life no matter what you wanted to do. No one would take him seriously if they knew he was just some… country bumpkin.

He'd spent the six months after his acceptance to Hope's Peak losing his accent, practicing and practicing in secret so he wouldn’t sound… so he wouldn’t sound so….

And she’d known.

Of course, she’d known.

She'd caught him practicing, styling his hair, buying new clothes, fancy clothes, with the living stipend they'd given him.

And she’d just….

Smiled.

She'd never said a word about it.

She’d only ever wanted him to be happy.

And he’d….

He’d-

He’d-

He’d-

  
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That girl was still there.

Enoshima Junko was still there.

Like something out of magazine, a wet dream given fading form.

Still there.

At least for the moment.

More than beautiful enough to steal his breath away.

And he was so lonely.

It had been easy to lose himself, to forget himself in the flare of instinctive want and flimsy fantasy.

Her sweater fit so snuggly, stretched taunt across her ample breasts and he was pretty sure he could see the bump of her nipples pressing against the fabric.

Could almost feel the soft give of the knit beneath his fingertips as he shoved it up out of the way and laid his lips around one pert, perfect nipple, rolled his tongue across that puckered flesh.

Her hair shone like spun gold where her pigtails spilled across her shoulders and he could imagine that they were as soft and silky as it looked.

That it would feel good wrapped around his fingers, dragging across his cheeks as it fell to frame his face when she kissed him.

Would she smell like strawberries?

Vanilla?

Coconut?

He could imagine her climbing up to straddle his lap, clever fingers tracing over his kitchen whites, dipping beneath and….

He whimpered, wincing as the fantasy fell apart, shattered around him, as pain lanced through him, as the beginnings of arousal wilted beneath the ache of stretching, irritated skin.

His fingers trembled as the momentary thought of another's touch dissipated leaving only the cold reality of his red, blistered, broken fingertips pressed against the tabletop.

He was alone once more.

She wasn't real.

Just… his foolish heart, his lonely mind playing tricks.

That's all it had been.

None of it was real.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

Not even  _them_.

Especially not them.

As the first sob choked him, he let his forehead fall down against the tabletop. He felt a blister pop as pain rocketed through his head, an instinctive cry of pain tangling together with his sobs into a noise that echoed loud in the abandoned diner.

She was beautiful.

She’d always been beautiful.

It was almost enough to make him forget how she’d looked in the end.

Bloody bits and pieces strewn across that filthy room beneath Hope’s Peak.

That thick, cloyingly sweet stink of rot and spoiled meat.

But in the moment it was difficult to remember that.

To even remember who she had been at all.

Sometimes he looked at her, that frozen image of her, like a faded photograph from another life, and he couldn’t remember her name at all.

Couldn’t see her as anything but a stranger.

A stranger who made his blood race, made his body ache, but a stranger nonetheless.

He licked his lips, stomach queasy and unsettled. His fingers ached, pain lancing through his veins where he pressed the reddened, abused flesh of his fingertips against the tabletop.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t  _fair_.

It wasn’t-

Was-

Was-

Was-

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Hinata.

He thought he could see him through the window, just make him out through the dark, rain-splattered windows. Could just the shadow of him kneeling in the parking lot, but he wasn’t certain.

It was still raining.

It made it difficult to see.

And even if…

Even if it  _was_  him.

It didn’t really matter.

It wasn’t really him.

Just another weird image of him.

So, why was he even bothering to look? Especially when thinking about Hinata always seemed to lead to thinking about  _him_.

And he didn’t  _want_  to think about  _him_.

He didn’t want to think about those brief flickering moments, those images layered one atop the other, stuttered out in silence across the tiled floor of the deserted diner, heralded by the clank of the bells at the door.

The way it had felt like his heart had stopped in chest when he’d seen that strange jittering image of Hinata behind the counter.

Seen  _him_  leaning over the jukebox.

How  _pale_  he’d seemed.

Like a ghost come back to haunt him.

How he’d jumped and squealed when that sudden bang had resounded through the silent room followed by the crash of cracking glass. How he’d watched in horror as the one blow became two, three, four. How terror had banished the air from his lungs as he'd watched the damage appear beneath the blows rained down by Komaeda’s pale, translucent hands.

Watched napkin holders and condiments leap off the counter to scatter and shatter against the floor. How his heart had raced as Hinata had appeared in the next moment, barely more than a blur of dark hair and skin wrapping around the pale blur of Komaeda, drawing him away from the jukebox.

The way they’d vanished as the abused music box clicked and rattled, lights flickering as it creaked to ancient, faltering life. The grind of reluctant gears turning as a needle screeched across ridged plastic and the air filled with sound.

A grabbled, tuneless mess of static like a distant radio transmission, cutting in and out, the words mostly lost, ground down to indistinct syllables, melody made disconcerting by unfamiliarity and too much noise.

It had been so  _loud_.

Loud enough that he’d slapped hands over his ears to muffle it, winced as agony shot through his head and hands, molten and prickling through his veins, the throbbing pain of tender, split skin and and weeping blisters.

He’d probably cried out, but it had been hard to tell, so easily lost in the cacophony of sound.

They’d flickered back into life the image of them cutting in and out in time with the pulsing static of the jukebox as they moved towards the table, his table.

He’d yelped, scrambling to his feet and stumbling away from them until his back had slammed into the cracked jukebox. It was so much louder up close and he’d held his hands over his ears, but he’d still been able to hear the screaming static and the words buried within it.

They sounded like a foreign language, alien and unsettling.

His hands were shaking as he watched Hinata lift Komaeda up onto the table and then he was gone, the image of him fading away like he’d never been there at all and only Komaeda remained.

Only Komaeda, leaning back across the table’s surface.

Wearing a bloody shirt and ragged filthy pants and…  _smiling_.

Smiling.

 _Smiling_.

It wasn't  _fair_.

He didn’t  _deserve_  to smile.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

Bitterness welled up, clawing up his throat in the form of a directionless sob.

Then he was gone too.

He stumbled back to the table, shaking hands landing against the cool surface where Komaeda had been sitting a moment before.

No heat.

No mark left behind.

As if he’d never been there at all.

His eyes burned.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

It wasn’t  _fair_.

It just…

It wasn’t  _fair_.

It wasn’t fair. that he should be stuck there, suffering like as he was while  _he_  lived.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

While  _he_  got the things he wanted.

While he  _smiled_.

That he should be the only who was punished.

It wasn’t  _fair_.

It wasn’t  _fair_.

It was his fault, after all.

Everything,  _everything_  was his fault.

Everything-

Everything-

Everything-

  
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He’d never made friends easily.

Not even before.

He’d always tried too hard.

Come on too strong, maybe.

He wasn’t sure, but it had never been easy.

Whatever the reason, he’d just never fit in with his classmates before Hope’s Peak.

His dreams had always been… bigger than they were, his ambitions and goals beyond them and so he’d studied harder than anyone, worked harder, to reach them. He’d wanted so many things and he’d always felt like the expectations of their tiny town and all the tiny people in it were strangling him, were keeping him from reaching out for what he wanted.

Were keeping him from being the person he wanted to be.

People in his hometown thought that he was… queer and…  _uppity_.

The queer part bothered them, probably, though no one had ever said anything to him about it. It was easy enough to ignore, he supposed.

It wasn't like he'd ever dated or anything.

Out of sight, out of mind, maybe.

But, even if he had been dating boys or girls or anyone at all, it still probably wouldn't have upset them nearly as much as the idea that he thought he was too good for them had seemed to.

It didn’t help that it was  _true_.

He  _was_  too good for them.

He was talented.

He was ambitious.

He had  _plans_.

So, of course he was better than them. All those people with their small minds and their limited prospects.

That wasn't his fault.

But it had made it… hard to relate to other people, to make friends.

Not that it had mattered much.

He’d had Mama and their diner and that… that was all he’d really needed.

Just Mama and cooking.

Everything else had just been… gravy.

Still, he’d thought Hope’s Peak would be different.

That  _everything_  would be different for him there, that everything would change.

And so he’d wanted to change too.

He’d changed his look, lost his accent. He’d worked really hard to become the person he wanted to be, but he’d still been…

_Awkward._

He’d messed things up right in the beginning, putting on airs and struggling for a smoothness, a maturity he hadn’t earned and all it had done was drive people away.

He could admit that now.

But…

_But._

It still didn’t make that bitter pill any easier to swallow.

He was suffering.

He was in pain.

And it just wasn’t  _fair_.

_Squish._

It wasn’t his fault.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

He hadn’t wanted to hurt anybody.

He’d just been…

He’d been trying to  _protect_  them.

He’d just… wanted to go  _home_.

He buried his face against his knees, a sob catching and rattling in his chest as he remembered the soft juicy, meaty sound as flesh and cloth gave way before the force of his thrust.

The soft grunt of pain that had seemed so, so loud in the dark.

Drawing the skewer back and punching it in, up, again and again, faster and faster.

The weight of blood dribbling down against the heavy tablecloth he’d used to shield himself.

That brief moment when he’d felt… righteous. Like he'd done something good, something necessary, because Komaeda had been a  _terrible_  person.

A terrible person who deserved to die, probably even  _wanted_  to die since he’d practically gift-wrapped this opportunity for him.

No one could blame him for taking it.

In fact they should all have thanked him.

Thanked him for saving them.

They’d have all probably died anyway if Komaeda had gotten his way.

He’d have been the only one who’d have known the truth about Komaeda.

And they probably wouldn’t have believed him even if he tried to tell them.

After all… Komaeda was a heck of a good liar.

He’d fooled all of them into believing he was a good person.

A nice guy.

Even that skeptical sourpuss Hinata Hajime.

So wasn’t it better if he were the one going home instead of Komaeda?

At least they’d all be dying for someone who  _deserved_  to go home.

Anyone would have done the same in his shoes.

No one could blame him.

Anyone would have done the same.

Anyone-

Anyone-

Anyone-

  
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M _aybe_  he’d felt a little bad about it when Hinata had stepped into the kitchen after the blackout, his gaze scurrying over every inch of the room like he thought Komaeda might be hiding on top of the fridge.

He didn’t blame him.

They had seemed so close and all, even though they’d only known each other for a couple days.

Though that had been kind of irritating too.

But that hadn’t been Hinata’s fault.

Komaeda had fooled all of them, after all.

He’d just been so darn  _friendly_ , so  _complimentary_ , when he’d introduced himself that first day. Had grabbed his hands and smiled and been so quick to tell him that he’d heard all about his talent and couldn’t wait to taste his cooking.

“Oh, you're Hanamura Teruteru! You're the ultimate cook, right?”

“I prefer chef,” he'd managed, stumbling back a step, overwhelmed, as warm hands clasped around his own.

“Oh, they didn't mention that, sorry, sorry,” the pretty boy had replied quickly, his smile wilting a bit at the edges. He released his hands, laughing awkwardly and glancing away, brushing his hands against his long jacket.“That was… I shouldn’t have… sorry. That was too presumptuous of me, wasn’t it? I should have asked, of course. They’re saying online that your cooking is so good that it gave a dying man the will to live just for the chance to taste it once more.”

His voice was so breathy and excited, all the words running together as if he couldn’t quite say them fast enough to keep pace with his enthusiasm. There’d been something unsettling about the way he'd looked at him, so attentive, but it had also been… exciting.

_Flattering._

It had reminded him of every fantasy he’d ever had about Hope’s Peak.

About how different things would be.

About how different he would be.

“-Specialize in French cuisine?  No one seemed very clear on that point so I was wondering if you would-“

The pretty boy was still talking, rattling on endlessly about what he’d heard about online or something, but he couldn’t quite focus on the words.

He had such lovely lips.

So  _pink_.

And his skin and his hair were so pale… was he foreign? He had to be foreign. Probably. But he had spoken like a native, hadn’t he?

It had been a little hard to tell.

Were there a lot of foreign kids at Hope’s Peak? It would have made sense if there were. After all, if they’d wanted the best of the best, the most talented individuals, they’d have to look at the whole world, wouldn’t they? They couldn’t just limit themselves to a single country.

They probably weren’t all as pretty as this boy though.

Hopefully.

He’d never get anything done if he had to suffer through the constant distraction of being hard as a three-day old baguette all the time.

Still….

His stomach had twisted and squirmed at the brief fanciful image that had flitted through his head of what that pretty boy might look like on his knees, licking a spoon clean.

_Yeah._

He could go for that.

If that was how things were gonna be, he could most definitely get used to Hope’s Peak.

_Definitely._

Maybe being turned on all the time would be good for his cooking.

Or maybe he’d just have to figure out a way to get a little relief.

“I have a little something you could try right now, if you're hungry for some lean pork,” he’d commented, interrupting his newest fan’s ongoing commentary.

The line was out before he’d fully thought through the consequences.

And the boy had just stared back at him, uncomprehending, his expression utterly blank as if interrupting him had caused his enthusiasm to falter and break.

Like the system had crashed and he needed to reboot.

Weird.

Had it been that surprising?

He’d licked his lips, run nervous fingers back through his hair and tried his best not to fidget.

Had he come on too strong?

Crap.

“Look, I-“ He began, awkwardness and the beginnings of shame making the apology slow to emerge so that he was only two words in when he was interrupted by a sudden burst of high, unnatural laughter as the boy came back to life as suddenly as he’d fallen silent.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot to introduce myself, didn't I? That was rude of me. Maybe it’s a bit presumptuous of me to assume you’re interested, but I’m-”

He’d rattled off his name and talent, not quite looking at him while he did so, his cheeks flushed with color, hands shoved into the pockets of his pants.

It had been a little weird, but he hadn't thought much of it afterwards, because Komaeda had just gone back to talking about him as if nothing had happened at all. 

He hadn’t been sure whether Komaeda just hadn't been interested or if maybe he’d just come on a bit too strong.

Either way, it hadn’t mattered that much in the grand scheme of things.

He’d still been there talking to him after all and he wasn’t the sort to get discouraged by a single rejection.

Nothing worthwhile was easy.

And being tenacious had always been one of his best points.

Being a chef was all about failing and coming back stronger every time.

He figured dating was probably the same way.

Either way it had been a heady feeling to have someone look at him like that, with that kind of focus. It was definitely something he could get used to.

And gosh darn it, it was supposed to be a vacation, wasn’t it?

They were meant to be having a good time weren’t they?

But Komaeda had just continued to ignore every overture he’d made no matter how overt. Just kept giving him that same blank expression like he couldn't even comprehend the compliments and innuendo being thrown his way with increasing fervor and, far too soon, Komaeda had left him behind with a vague promise to taste his cooking later and wandered off to greet some of the others who hadn't yet scattered to check out the rest of the island.

It was disappointing, sure, being given the cold shoulder like that, but hardly worth dwelling on.

It wasn’t really a big deal.

After all, they were on a beautiful tropical island and most of the girls were wearing short, short skirts and most of the guys were pretty good looking to boot.

So there were plenty of other fish in the sea.

The world was a place of boundless opportunity and before long he’d forgotten all about pretty, kinda weird Komaeda Nagito and instead gone off on his own to explore the bountiful opportunities their island paradise had to offer.

The world-

The world-

The world-

  
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The hotel had been pretty fancy, not as fancy as it could have been, maybe, but nice enough. The restaurant had been good too, but the best thing about it by far had been the beautiful girl who’d wandered in while he’d been fussing with the centerpieces.

“Oh, hello, I did not expect anyone else to be here,” she’d commented, offering him a tentative smile. “Allow me to introduce myself, I am Sonia Lola Michalina Isabella Marieke Eliana Nevermind and I… oh, goodness, that was too much, was it not? It is customary to only introduce oneself with a given and surname here, is it not? Oh my, that is… I apologize. I will start again.”

Her smile had trembled for a moment before solidifying, her spine snapping straight as she held her hands together at chest level, knuckles white with strain, head held high as if she were about to deliver a state of address to a nation rather than simply introduce herself to a classmate.

“My name is Sonia Nevermind and I am a foreign exchange student from the kingdom of Novoselic. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance and hope we will get along.”

“Yeah, me too,” he'd replied, offering her what he hoped was a winning smile. She was a real beauty and the awkwardness was pretty cute too. “I’m Hanamura Teruteru. They call me the Ultimate Chef and it would be my absolute pleasure to serve you,  _Mademoiselle_.”

“Oh,” she blinked, looking mildly taken aback. “That is a common misunderstanding. I apologize, I am not French and while I do speak and understand it with some degree of fluency, I am afraid you will find me lacking if we were to attempt conversation. That said, while I would like it if we could set my title and position aside so that class barriers shall not be prohibitive to our friendship, I still feel it is important to clarify my standing in order to avoid comedic situations involving mistaken identity later on which I am given to understand are common in situations such as the one we currently find ourselves in. As such, I do not wish my new companions to believe I was, I believe the common phrase is ‘trying to put one on you’. Thus I shall clarify that while Novoselic is indeed a European country like France, we are actually located at the junction point between Austria, Slovakia and Hungary. In fact, my country was originally part of Austria before our kingdom was created as a barrier against Ottoman aggression following the Siege of Vienna. That said, while our dialects have evolved and changed a great deal over the years our national language remains German. So,  _Ihre Hoheit_  would actually be the more accurate way to refer to me as, though I am a princess, I am the highest ranking member of royalty after my mother and I… oh, goodness, I apologize, was that too much?”

She’d just been so deliciously  _awkward_.

“Not at all,  _Ihre Hoheit_ ,” he’d replied, smiling widely.

Everyone knew that European royalty was kind of dim on account of all those centuries of inbreeding, but he’d never thought he’d have the opportunity to see the truth of that first hand. This was a valuable opportunity and definitely one he had no intention of passing up. Plus, Japanese wasn’t her first language so… yeah. Tropical beaches and pretty foreign boys and princesses… Hope’s Peak was so much better than he’d ever dared to hope it would be.

“Oh no, no, I did not mean to say that I would like you to call me that. I must insist that you call me Sonia. After all, I would very much like if we might be friends and I….”

He was pretty sure that she’d said something after that, babbled on a bit about the importance of friendship or maybe offered another impromptu history lesson, but whatever she’d said hadn't really mattered all that much since he’d already determined the most important bit.

“So, Sonia,” he'd asked, licking his lips nervously as he leaned against the wall beside her. “Do you know much about the indigenous animals on this island?”

“Nothing at all, but I am most eager to learn. Animals are a truly important part of every culture.”

“Well, you see,” he’d began, leaning in closer to her as if he were going to be imparting vital information. “On this island there’s this poisonous snake called the dicksnapper which I had the misfortune of running across when we first arrived.”

He couldn’t remember most of what he’d told her, just that she'd gobbled it all up, her eyes wide and bright and interested. She’d just kept nodding along as if she understood and believed everything he was saying no matter how far he pushed it.

“I see,” she’d murmured, her expression serious. “You are most fortunate the venom has such a low level of toxicity or you would surely be dead by now. Still, it must be quite painful.”

“That's right,” he replied, unable to keep the smile off his face. “I’m having a hard time because it's full of poison. It really sucks. Speaking of which, it'd be great if you could use your mouth to suck it out…”

“Poison… I see,” she’d murmured, looking thoughtful, eyes going distant as if contemplating the idea.

He’d been so lucky he’d found her first.

Or at least that was what he’d thought, right up until….

“H-Hey…do you guys have a moment?”

He hadn't even seen them in and suddenly they were right there beside them, butting into their conversation and he could feel the carefully constructed jenga tower of lies he'd built collapsing around him as the princess turned her attention to the newcomers.

“Whoa… denied,” he'd grumbled before turning to look at the… surprisingly attractive intruders.

“Hello, it is nice to meet you,” the princess commented, smiling warmly at the newcomers.

He really hadn't been expecting to see Komaeda again so soon since he’d been so firmly shut out on that front, but apparently he’d found himself a friend.

And a handsome friend at that.

Not pretty the way Komaeda was pretty, certainly, but most definitely cute.

Even if he did look kind of uptight.

Still… everyone knew that it was the ones that looked the most straight-laced that were actually the biggest freaks between the sheets.

He smiled wider, slicking a comb back through his hair, his disappointment at being interrupted almost forgotten in the face of new opportunities, “Why, hello there. You must be the new guy. My name is Hanamura TeruTeru. On the streets, I’m known as the Ultimate Cook… but could you guys call me the Ultimate Chef instead? It has more of a… big-city flavor to it, ya know?”

The new guy nodded, giving him a somewhat strained smile.

_Yeah._

He could definitely go for that.

“Mmhmhm,” he commented, licking his lips, butterflies jittering about in his stomach. “I hope we get along well.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” the princess cut in, stepping forward and calling the new guy’s attention to her.

Not that he blamed him for that.

She was definitely worthy of attention.

Komaeda, however, only seemed to have eyes for the new guy judging by the way he hovered beside him, fingers caught in the crisp white linen of his sleeve.

_Huh._

So was that Komaeda’s type then?

No wonder he hadn't been able to get any traction with him. Still, just because the new guy was Komaeda’s type didn't mean Komaeda was his.

All was fair in love and war after all.

And he was pretty cute, so it was definitely worth feeling him out, finding out more about him, gauging his interests.

The last thing he wanted to do was scare him off and that seemed like it would be pretty easy to do. Besides just seeming kind of uptight, he also seemed kind of… jittery, nervous which was probably only natural since he was new and all, but it also meant he definitely needed to use a more subtle approach than he’d taken with Komaeda.

He’d just need to… beat around the bush a little rather than go straight to the root of the matter at hand.

“H-Hey, you three, am I being left off the menu or something?” He interjected, drawing the new guy’s wide-eyed gaze back to him.

“No… that’s not it…”

“Oh, Hanamura,” Komaeda commented, his voice cheerful even though his expression seemed kind of… weird. “It’s so like you to check out the restaurant first. As the Ultimate Chef, do you like it?”

_Chef._

Komaeda had remembered to call him chef…  _nice_.

“Mmhmhm… I would be lying if I said I wasn’t interested. And since I do not want to be a liar, then truthfully… Yeah, I like it.”

Everyone was staring at him.

Had that been too much? Had he laid it on too thick?

Why had he said that about lying?

_Dammit._

“Though I like the big-city flavor of my hometown, a country atmosphere like this is also splendid,” he added quickly, forcing a smile and what he hoped was a nonchalant laugh.

_Dammit._

They were still just staring at him.

What had he done wrong?

Had he given himself away?

_Dammit!_

“Hey,” the new boy began, hesitantly. “Are you…?”

“Refined?” He blurted out, the anticipation of the new guy’s slow response too much to bear. “Cultured? Guilty as charged!”

He was pretty sure his voice broke a little on that last syllable, panic swirling around in his belly.

Dammit.

_Dammit._

“No, not that… You just… don’t seem very worried, huh?”

_Worried?_

Worried?

What the heck did that mean? What the heck was he trying to say?

_Dammit._

“Worried?” He asked, forcing the word out, nervous fingers knotting in hit apron. “What’s there to worry about? Actually, I’m really happy.”

“Happy? Why is that…?”

He looked so… confused.

Maybe this wasn’t about him at all.

Or if it was… maybe….

“If I can get serious real quick…” He beckoned the new kid a little closer, pitched his voice lower. When he leaned down to hear him better, it was the easiest thing in the world to slip an arm across his shoulders, to pull him in close. “I have a sneaking suspicion that Miss Pekoyama is actually a bit of a freak, if you catch my meaning. What do you think?”

“…What?”

He could feel the sudden tension in the line of his shoulders, but it was impossible to tell if it was from surprise, offense or interest or some combination of the three, so he barreled on, speaking more quickly as those nervous butterflies in his stomach fluttered to life again.

“She’s probably wearing a black thong, too. What are your thoughts on that?”

He chanced a glance at his face and found his expression curiously blank.

_Dammit._

He’d played this all wrong, hadn’t he?

“No? Then, shall we discuss this somewhere privately?”

Dammit.

Dammit.

_Dammit._

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon!” He’d breathed, frustration coloring his tone as he tried to steer the new guy away from he others.

“…No thanks,” the new kid had muttered, shaking his head and shifting a little like he was trying to squirm away from him, to shrug him off.

_Dammit._

“Well, putting that aside for now…”

He had known he should quit while he was ahead, should just let it go, but….

_Dammit._

Nothing had worked out for him so far that day.

Nothing was going his way.

Not Komaeda, not the princess, not the new guy.

He’d probably even managed to give himself away.

This was supposed to be…  _dammit_.

_Dammit._

He just couldn’t seem to stop grasping at straws.

It was desperate.

It was stupid.

But he couldn’t seem to  _stop_.

“This might also seem unexpected to you,” he’d rattled out, his smile feeling pasted on. “But… I feel like Miss Nevermind over there has a good chance of putting out.”

_Dammit._

He shouldn’t have said that.

Why couldn’t he just stop  _talking_?

“You see, everybody knows princesses are groomed to lack common sense, right? For example, I could tell her my ‘loins’ are full of poison and ask her to suck it out…”

He chanced another glance at his face and found the new kid’s wide gaze had gone cold and dark, almost forbidding. It sent a chill up his spine, causing him to shiver even given the overwhelming warmth of that summer day.

_Dammit._

He’d really messed things up.

It was the kind of look that seemed to say that nothing he could possibly say was of any interest to him.

Like he’d stepped in something foul.

“…Pardon me, what are you talking about?”

He was almost relieved when the princess’ interruption gave him an excuse to ease away from Hinata, to smile and offer a hurried ‘we’ll discuss this later’ even though he was pretty sure they wouldn’t. Was pretty sure he’d be lucky if he ever willing talked to him again after that disaster of a conversation.

Dammit.

_Dammit._

They were supposed to be having a good time, weren’t they?

This wasn’t any fun at all.

He’d dropped his arm back to his side, stepping away even as Komaeda stepped in to fill the empty space between them, as if he needed to… to  _shield_  the new guy from him.

What the heck?

Komaeda’s gaze was narrow and cool and somehow filled with even more condemnation that the new guy’s had been.

It felt like he was being observed from on high by that narrowed gaze, like Komaeda’s cheerful smile was the gleam of a knife’s edge.

He shivered, a little frightened by the look, but mostly just turned on.

After all, the right amount of fear just added a hint of spice to the flavor of desire.

“…I’d better not see you try that again,” Komaeda had murmured, his voice pitched low enough that Sonia didn't seem to hear it all.

He’d cleared his throat uncomfortably, stepping away from the pair with as much good grace as he could muster, “Anyway… when I fantasize about stuff like that, I can’t help but look forward to living on this island. When it comes to cooking and love, passion is the most important ingredient. Mmhmhmhmhm!”

He’d been grateful when the bell had rung out, distracting them and effectively ending the conversation, but it had still… grated on his nerves as he’d made his way to the beach on his own, the princess having fallen into step with the gamer girl as they all emerged from the hotel.

Dammit.

Nothing was going to plan.

_Dammit._

And the way they’d looked at him… like he was  _beneath_  them.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

Like he’d done something  _wrong_.

He’d only been playing around.

It was supposed to be a vacation, wasn’t it?

They had been there to have fun, hadn’t they?

But still they’d looked down on him like he was….

_Dammit._

They didn’t even  _know_  him.

What business was it of theirs anyway?

Still, he was nothing if not adaptable.

He  _was_  a chef after all and he’d never have become half as good at it as he was if he hadn’t been able to adjust deftly to changing circumstances. Besides, there were plenty of other fish in the sea and more than enough hotties on the beach to make up for the minor disappointment of those two not liking him.

And, anyway, that had all been before he’d known what kind of person Komaeda really was.

If he'd known before, how willing, how  _eager_  he’d be to jump in on the idea of killing people… well.

He'd never have been interested at all no matter how pretty he was.

_Yeah._

He’d really dodged a bullet on that one.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

And he really… it wasn’t like he’d felt  _bad_  about it or anything.

He’d only done what he had to do and, really, Hinata would have been  _lucky_.

Lucky he'd never had to know how crazy his… whatever they were to each other was.

He could still remember how sick, how devastated Hinata had looked when Komaeda had let that facade of his slip during the trial.

_Yeah._

He’d barely managed to get everything put away before Hinata had been poking his nose in to the kitchen, looking pensive and worried.

He hadn’t asked him anything, but he still remembered vaguely having rattled off something about the shoddy state of that hall, nerves driving him to speak far too much and too fast as he leaned against the counter with a nonchalance that he didn’t feel.

His breath had still been coming too fast after the dash back to the kitchen and he’d still been shaking a bit with the aftermath of adrenaline that had had him slamming the blood-covered skewer back into the meat much harder than was probably necessary.

He’d been lucky to make it back in time.

Lucky not to be caught.

He still wasn't even sure that Hinata had even heard anything he’d said at all as he hadn’t answered him. All he’d done was give him a tight smile before ducking back out of the room, letting the door fall shut behind him.

No, he hadn't felt bad, even then.

He hadn’t felt bad.

After all, Komaeda… Komaeda had deserved what he’d gotten.

He'd been so… bad, crazy, awful,  _whatever_.

He’d probably always been that way from the very beginning. Been that way even on that first day when he'd seemed so….

Really, he'd thought, Hinata was lucky he’d never have to know what kind of monster he’d been cozying up to.

It might even have been him that Komaeda killed. Most murderers knew their victims intimately, everyone knew that, and he had a feeling those two were probably getting it on.

They always stood too close to each other, like they had no concept of personal space or maybe like they’d known each other for years rather than just the minutes, hours it had been since they first met.

It was  _weird_.

 _They_  were weird.

Except….

It hadn’t been Komaeda.

It had-

It had-

It had-

  
**[ERROR_CTX_SHADOW_DENIED (0x1B84)]**  
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He’d come back into the dining room and found Komaeda standing with the rest, pale as a ghost, and for a second, a second that had seemed like  _hours_ , he'd thought he  _was_.

Thought he was like Banquo’s ghost seated at the dinner table, ready to raise his hand in accusation.

He'd startled badly when Komaeda's wide-eyed gaze had risen to meet his own, like he was just as shocked to be there as he was shocked to see him.

Then Hinata had come in, stepping into the room and immediately making his way to Komaeda who had smiled at him as if he'd been expecting him. As if there was nothing strange about him being there, as if there was nothing to worry about at all.

Why was he alive?

_Why?_

_Why?_

_Why?_

It was... had it all been a trick? A trap?

No, it couldn't have been… that….

He felt dizzy... sick.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

He knew what it felt like to punch a skewer through meat and sinew.

He knew….

He kn-

He kn-

He kn-

  
**[ERROR_CTX_SHADOW_DENIED (0x1B84)]**  
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He'd felt... almost righteous plunging that skewer up through the floorboards as the knife shifted. The paint had glowed so… so  _bright_  in the darkness that it had been all he could see as he'd thrust upwards with all his strength again and again and again, because he needed to be  _sure_.

He needed to make  _sure_  he was dead.

It would all have been for nothing otherwise.

_Nothing._

Only he...  _wasn't_.

Somehow.

He...  _wasn't_.

And he couldn't understand how that could possibly….

“Ah, Hinata! How’d it go?”

Had his voice always been so…  _grating_?

“Well, when I talked with Nanami, she said he didn’t go outside…”

_He?_

Those words were like ice poured down his spine, fingers grabbing and twisting, squeezing his heart to pulp.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

Who?

Who was  _he_?

Who… who was  _missing_?

Because whoever was missing was probably….

Was probably….

Wa-

Wa-

Wa-

 ****  
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He glanced around the room, quickly, furtively, but he couldn’t tell, not at first. Not with people still filtering back into the hall.

All he could think of was the warm splash of liquid slopping down across the tablecloth, the squish and squelch of meat as he shoved the skewer upwards again and again, because he had to be  _sure_.

 _Had_  to be  _sure_.

It would all have been for nothing if he was just  _injured_.

But it was… it was supposed to be  _him_.

“Th-That’s weird…” Komaeda had replied, fingers trembling as they clutched at his elbows, hugging his arms around himself as if he could gain some measure of comfort from it. “No one was inside the storage room either.”

“He wasn’t in the kitchen, obviously,” he interjected, nerves forcing him to speak when maybe it would have been smarter to just keep his mouth shut.

After all, Hinata already knew he hadn't been in the kitchen.

Whoever  _he_  was.

Who was missing?

Who?

_Who?_

Did Komaeda really not intend to just rat him out?

Did Komaeda somehow not know that he…?

No, that was impossible.

“No one was in the office,” Souda offered, shrugging his shoulders as he meandered back into the room.

“Nobody was in the office?”

“Huh?” Saionji frowned, her face screwing up in irritation. “What about Peko? I thought she was supposed to be guarding the area.”

“Well… actually, not even Peko was there.”

“Eh?” Koizumi exclaimed, fingers white where they gripped her camera too hard. “Peko’s gone too?”

“Maybe those two took advantage of the blackout to have themselves a major makeout session in the bathroom…?” Hysterical laughter bubbled up at the thought, “Truly, truly outrageous.”

Maybe… maybe he’d been wrong after all, maybe he’d just dreamed this whole thing up.

Maybe he hadn’t even left the kitchen at all during the blackout.

Maybe this was all just a terrible, terrible joke.

Yeah, that had to be it.

That had to be….

This was just a prank.

Maybe they were all in on it.

Maybe Komaeda wasn't such a bad guy after all.

Maybe….

“Did something happen, Akane?” Sonia inquired, calling all their attention to where Akane was sniffing the air like some kind of hound catching the scent of prey.

“Well… do any of you… smell something…?”

Mikan’s voice was shaky and too loud, fingers twisting together nervously as she spoke, “Wh-When partially digested food is absorbed by the small intestine, it’s decomposed by bacteria, releasing gas… which is mostly absorbed in the intestinal tract, but whatever cannot be absorbed is excreted from the anus. Th-Those are the mechanics of farting… but… farting isn’t something to be embarrassed about!”

Akane waved her off like her ramblings were nothing out of the ordinary, “No, I’m not talkin’ about that… it smells like blood.”

“Blood?!”

Akane nodded, quick and certain, still sniffing the air, “It’s coming’ from over there…!”

She pointed towards the back table.

The table Komaeda had put the knife under.

Who was missing?

_Who?_

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

“Th-The smell of blood coming from that table… it’s best if we go check it out, Hinata,” Komaeda commented, his voice soft, fingers catching against Hinata’s sleeve to tug him gently in the direction of the table.

It hadn’t been a dream at all, had it?

None of it.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

“Y-Yeah,” Hinata murmured, his expression uneasy, but he followed Komaeda’a lead willingly enough.

“The smell of blood…?” He swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away from the table and the knowledge of what lay beneath it, temporarily obscured by the pristine white of the tablecloth. “That’s weird. I didn’t cook any dishes that involve rare meat. So there’s no way… there’d be any smell of blood!”

But they weren’t listening, no one was.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

They had just kept moving towards the table, their steps growing more hurried the closer they got to it and then Hinata was breaking away from Komaeda, almost running to the table, his hands settling on the tablecloth.

_Don’t look._

_Don’t-_

_Don’t-_

_Don’t-_

  
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There’d been a pause.

Like the whole world was taking a deep breath.

Like time had frozen around them or maybe it had just seemed that way, because too soon Hinata had yanked the cloth back, flipped it up with a shout to reveal the bloody mess that had once been Togami Byakuya.

This wasn’t….

He hadn’t meant to….

He hadn’t-

He hadn’t-

He hadn’t-

  
**[ERROR_DS_DRA_SECRETS_DENIED (0x21B6)]**  
….loading....loading....

It was  _supposed_  to be  _Komaeda_.

It….

_Dammit._

_Dammit._

He hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone.

He’d just wanted to keep  _Komaeda_  from hurting anyone.

Had that been so  _wrong_?

He’d never have done it at all if it weren’t for Komaeda, if Komaeda hadn’t put that poisonous snake of an idea in his head.

It wasn’t his  _fault_.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

Togami was….

What had he been  _doing_  under there anyway?

Had he intended to kill someone with that knife?

He had to have… hadn’t he?

If he’d just left the knife alone…

If Komaeda hadn’t put it there in the first place.

It wasn’t  _fair_.

It wasn’t  _fair_.

It wasn’t his  _fault_.

It was-

It was-

It was-

  
**[ERROR_PATH_BUSY (0x94)]**  
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He hadn’t….

He’d just wanted to go  _home_.

“This is your  _fault_ ,” he’d hissed, catching Komaeda and pulling him into the kitchen while Hinata poked around, talking to people like he was some kind of junior investigator.

His shaking hands had caught and crumpled the edges of Komaeda’s ugly jacket as he shoved him back against the kitchen door. “Togami’s dead because of  _you_. This is your fault. It’s all your fault.  _You_  did this. It was supposed to be  _you_!”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Komaeda had asked, huffing out a laugh, eyes focused somewhere beyond him. Like he wasn’t even worth looking at at all. “That’s just my luck, I guess. Lucky, lucky me.”

_Dammit._

Was this all just a joke to him?

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

He’d released him, backing away, wiping his hands against his apron. He glared at him, barely realizing his accent was slipping, “You’re just totally nuts, ain’t ya?”

“I don’t really like that word,” he’d replied softly as his gaze finally shifted to meet his, his face was weirdly devoid of expression. “I won’t say anything, you know. I’ll even try to direct attention away from you, if I can.”

He’d felt numb, cold, syllables running together as he choked out a reply, “Why would ya do that for me?”

“Does it matter?” Komaeda shrugged, already turning away to slip out of the kitchen, “I don’t care if I die, so you should just focus on escaping this island….”

Dammit.

And then Komaeda had been gone, disappearing back out into the hall beyond, the door falling shut behind him with a quiet whoosh of sound.

_Dammit._

What choice had he had but to trust him?

For all the good it had done him in the end.

He’d wandered back into the hall, mind running round and round in circles, trying to remember every detail and shying away from all those details just the same.

Had he made any mistakes?

He’d been so careful.

Hadn’t he?

_Hadn’t he?_

He remembered the heavy splatter of blood against cloth, the darkness, the sickly green glow of the knife and the strange satisfaction of pressing that skewer up, of pressing it through cloth and flesh until it hit bone and drawing it back out again.

It wasn’t as if he’d  _wanted_  Togami to die.

He hadn’t.

He  _hadn’t_.

But what was done was done.

He had just….

He had just wanted to go  _home_  and once it was done, it was done and all he could do was try and…

Live.

And if that meant everyone else had to die….

Anyone would have done the same.

 _Anyone_.

When he’d thought about it that way, it had really just been self-defense.

He hadn't had any other choice.

He’d just wanted to _live_.

To go  _home_.

It had all been Komaeda's fault.

All his fault.

If it weren't for him....

If Komaeda hadn't existed….

Komaeda with his stupid, pretty hair and all his crazy....

He'd never have....

He’d never-

He’d never-

He’d never-

  
**[ERROR_PATH_BUSY (0x94)** ]  
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Maybe none of it would have happened at all.

But....

Then again maybe it would have.

He'd been so  _desperate_ , just begging for an excuse.

For a chance to go  _home_.

He'd spent his whole life dreaming of the whole world and, in the end, all he’d wanted was to go  _home_.

Home.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

He curled his arms tighter around his knees, shuddering as he slumped back against the window to stare out into the dark, stormy night beyond.

The diner was silent once more.

The ghosts of his past or his screwed up imagination or whatever they had been were gone, or nearly so, and even the jukebox had finally quieted once more save for a quiet persistent clicking noise and even that was almost lost beneath the muffled sound of the storm outside and the creak of vinyl beneath his butt.

That first day... he remembered thinking how  _lucky_  he was.

A beach vacation with all those beautiful people.

Private cabins on a private island… how could anything be better than that?

Back home he'd always been so busy at the diner, he’d never had much time for fun.

Much time to make friends.

He’d been so busy worrying about money and Mama overworking herself that he'd never given much thought to dating either.

Not really.

Not seriously.

But when he’d woken up that first day on island… everything had seemed possible.

Like he’d left all his cares and worries behind.

But everything had changed since his… since he’d been….

_Executed._

The burns of his punishment never faded, never healed, never improved at all.

It hurt to breathe.

It hurt to exist.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

Everything ached, but he’d learned to deal with that.

It had taken days, but he’d mostly learned to tolerate the constant ache of burned flesh.

It still… it still hurt, but it mostly existed in the background, a constant undercurrent of irritation.

An itch he could never scratch.

His hands were the worst.

Cracked and peeling, covered with blisters and charred black at the edges. It burned, it always burned, without any release. He’d found painkillers at the pharmacy, lotions, but even if he managed to dull the sensation, it was always quick to return when he awoke the next morning and it never, ever went away, not entirely.

_Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu._

He was burning, still burning,  _always_  burning.

He couldn’t touch anything without flaring that familiar pain to greater heights.

Not even himself.

Not eve-

Not eve-

Not eve-

  
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That morning… he could have sworn he’d heard the heavy tread of footsteps in the hall.

He’d peered out the door and he was pretty sure he’d seen the ghost of Togami walking down the hall, slipping into the dining hall.

He hadn’t stuck around to be sure.

Instead he’d run as fast as his legs could carry him to the restaurant and hid away beneath one of the tables.

Once or twice, he’d thought he’d heard footsteps, some heavy and some light, fast and slow.

In the restaurant, echoing up from the patio or the lobby below.

Could have sworn he heard voices too.

But they’d been weird.

Really weird.

Too fast or too slow, the words jumbled or strung out, too loud or too soft and never clear enough that he could understand any of it.

In the end, he’d just stayed where he’d been, stayed hidden away, cowering beneath the table, arms around his head to muffle the sound.

But nothing could have drowned out the crackle and snap of the fire as it roared to life.

Nothing could have blunted the stench of smoke and char as the smoke seeped into the restaurant, making the air seem thick, rough and aching in his lungs.

Feeling sick, he’d eased out from under the table, mildly surprised by how dark it had been.

When had it gotten so late?

Was it really late at all?

He wasn’t sure.

All he knew was that it was darker in the restaurant than usual and it stayed plenty dark as he crept toward the railing.

He’d been able to see the orange and red juts of flame dancing across the roofs of the cottages long before he got there.

He was pretty sure he’d screamed before he managed to slap his hands over his mouth to stifle the sound.

The hotel was  _burning_.

He was burning.

Again.

It was hot.

So hot.

It was like the flames were licking his skin even though he knew that was impossible.

Knew.

Knew they were too far away.

Knew that the blaze was only burning the cabins.

That there was no way he could really feel the heat of them from so far away.

But....

But.

He must have… run or something.

He wasn’t sure.

Everything had just been a blur of panic and fear and red and orange light.

The familiar ache of motion, the sharp, jabbing pain of blisters prickling and popping under pressure. The scorch of heat against his skin and his heart pounding in his head and a scream so loud that it seemed to drown out the sound of crackling and popping, of crashing wood and burning paper.

The next thing he remembered with any clarity had been tripping over his own feet outside the diner, splashing down into a puddle and scraping his abused hands against the pavement beneath the water’s surface.

His throat ached and he was soaking wet and there had been rain.

Rain had been pounding down all around him, warm and painful as a rain of needles against the bare skin at the back of his neck and across his unprotected head.

He’d lost his hat and his scarf somewhere or maybe… maybe he’d taken them off he… he wasn’t sure.

He wasn’t sure of anything.

And it had been  _raining_.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen rain, much less felt it on his skin.

He must have, back before… before everything that had happened, but he… he couldn’t remember.

It seemed like it had been raining a long time, because the parking lot was already buried beneath a thick layer of water.

And he… he….

He’d pushed himself up off the ground and run for the dinner, splashing and kicking up water as he made his stumbling, fumbling way across the parking lot to the door, yanking it open as thunder crashed overhead, drowning out the sound of those clanking bells as he ducked inside. As he let the door fall closed behind him as he collapsed into a heap on the checkerboard floor.

Everything had hurt.

Everythi-

Everythi-

Everythi-

  
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There was nothing left of her now but that smile.

That sharp, white smile.

And he couldn’t stop staring at it.

It seemed… brighter, wider than it had before.

Bigger.

Whiter.

Sharper.

There were just… so many  _teeth_.

Outside, the rain was still falling.

It had been falling for a long time and no time at all.

But he couldn’t hear it anymore.

All he could hear was that laughter, soft as a memory and crackling with static.

Pu-

Pu-pu-

Pu-pu-pu-

Pu-pu-pu-pu-

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-

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**[ERROR_DEV_NOT_EXIST (0x37)]**  
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**[ERROR_SERVICE_REQUEST_TIMEOUT (0x41C)]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, yes, this was indeed the completely necessary yet long-as-hell Teruteru chapter absolutely no one asked for! Yeah, I know, but it's my birthday and I'll post what I want to. Sorry if y'all were expecting something a bit more... not this, but I promise there's absolutely a reason why this is here and hopefully updates will be a bit more timely for the next little while so I'll get back to the things you were expecting to see in relatively short order. ^_^
> 
> Apologies for the long update delay, btw. It's gonna happen from time to time. Fun fact: Long-term, high intensity laptop usage can fuck up your neck. So, if you're a laptop user, please consider using it in moderation or get a monitor and work at a desk when you can. Your body will thank you for it later. Cheers!
> 
> As usual, you can find me on [tumblr](https://midnight-run-amok.tumblr.com/).


	19. More and More and More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...It was time to talk...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to catch me on [tumblr](http://midnight-run-amok.tumblr.com/) where I blathered on far more extensively about this update. ^_^

**DAY THREE**  
-continued-  
**03:43:43 UTC**  
**+++**

 _“How did it get so late so soon? It's night before it's afternoon. December is here before it's June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?”  
_ -Dr. Seuss

**+++**

The sky was dark and the rain was still falling.

The rain had been falling for a long time.

A long time and no time at all.

The wood beneath his feet was slippery, soft and spongy, almost slimy, as if the rain falling upon those planks had transformed them into something subtly different from what they’d begun as.

As he made his slow, stumbling way up the bridge, he tried and failed not to think about the way his gauze-covered soles struck the surface; how it gave beneath each new step as if he were leaving impressions behind him to mark his path.

He tried not to dwell on the way it seemed to become more and more difficult to lift his feet away again, the way the soggy gauze wrapped around them caught and stuck, holding him back, stuttering his step, however briefly, before pulling free.

How far had he come?

How far did he still have to go?

His borrowed pants were heavy, the material soaked through long ago, the seams chafing his skin with each new step.

It didn’t matter, he’d told himself each time, as he braced for another step, another pull, for the sickening wet pop of broken suction as he pulled his feet free of it again and again.

If he didn’t make it there in time.

If he couldn’t reach him….

No, no, that wasn’t… there was no reason to freak out.

There were  _rules_.

There were always rules.

Even if he didn’t know them, there were still rules.

It was a game.

It had always been a game.

So there were rules.

Games…  _programs_  were governed by rules.

Probably.

Maybe.

It didn’t matter.

He just…

Just….

“Did you know that TeruTeru’s still alive and hiding beneath my bed? He comes out at night and makes all the food we eat at the hotel.” Komaeda commented blithely as they stumbled up the bridge together.

The morning sun was bright overhead, the heat already unbearable even with the gentle sea breeze lifting their hair and clothes as they'd stepped out onto the bridge that would lead them over to the central island.

“Can you seriously not shut up for ten lousy minutes?” He muttered as he pulled them to a stop so he could try to adjust his grip across Komaeda’s back.

“Did you know I once took a vow of silence? My parents begged me to speak, but if I broke my vow all their hair would have fallen out and I would have  _died_.”

“And what a tragedy  _that_ would have been,” he grumbled, steadying Komaeda with one hand while he groped beneath his jacket for a better handhold. His shirt was drenched in sweat, clinging to the feverish warmth of his skin, the fabric slick beneath his fingers. The coat was probably just making it worse. “Why are you even wearing this anyway? It’s a million degrees out here.”

“It protects me from perverts, mosquitos and horseradish,” Komaeda answered easily, as if that much should be obvious. He swayed away from him, the sudden shift sending them both stumbling dangerously close to the edge.

He cursed and hauled him back against him, fingers digging in against his hip to keep his grip.

Komaeda yelped, falling back into him, fingers catching against his shoulder, forehead crashing down against his throat, hard enough to knock the breath from him and for a moment he forgot how annoying Komaeda was being.

“Sorry, did that hurt?” He wheezed, shifting his grip so he was merely steadying him instead of digging his nails in against his skin.

“Yes,” Komaeda replied, his voice strange, husky and rough, lips brushing the shape of the lie against his skin.

He blinked awake to darkness, rain heavy against his lashes.

Lightning flashed across the sky, shining bright across the slick red planks of the bridge.

He needed to keep moving.

He needed….

The sun was still bright overhead and Komaeda was laughing again, high and free, head lolling against his shoulder, breath blowing warm against his cheek as they stumbled forward together, still weaving too close to the edge for comfort.

“I really hate the way you smell,” he offered the observation with a smile in his voice and a skip in his step.

He snorted, squeezing the hand he was now holding to be sure Komaeda's arm stayed locked over his shoulder. “Yeah, well, thanks for that. We all have one change of clothes and there are no washing machines. Soap's only gonna get us so far so we all just need to suck it up and learn to live with it.”

“I have a lot of friends, you know,” he whispered conspiratorially, lips brushing his ear as he leaned in again, uncomfortably close.

“Really? Maybe you can get one of them to carry you.”

Komaeda giggled, reeling back and away, pulling free of his hold with a sudden jerk so he could stumble down the bridge, weaving dangerously and gesturing wildly towards the figures ahead of them. “Tanaka doesn’t actually like animals at all! Souda wears a leopard-print thong! Owari is a vegetarian! Saionji made me a friendship bracelet just the other day. Oh! And you might have already guessed, but I’m actually a secret agent placed here to gather intelligence on a coconut uprising.”

“Would you  _quit that_ ,” he snapped, finally managing to snag one of Komaeda's wildly gesticulating hands and using it to yank him back against him with more force than necessary, frustration grinding his teeth together. “Stop flailing around like that or we’re going to  _fall_.”

“Well, I can fly so that wouldn’t really be a problem. You shouldn’t worry about me so much, Hinata.”

“I’m not worried about  _you_ , I’m worried about  _me_  since you’re probably going to end up dragging me down with you.”

"Oh... yeah," Komaeda stilled, cocking his head to one side as if he were giving the matter serious consideration, “Hm, yeah, I’d definitely let you fall.”

“Thanks for that,” he grumbled, using the opportunity to sling Komaeda's arm back around his shoulders before hooking his own around his waist once more. “I don't suppose there's any way you could maybe at least  _try_ to help me out here?”

“Help  _you_? You’re the one who keeps insisting on walking so close to me for no reason. I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, but everybody would probably be pissed at me if I just let you walk off the bridge."

"They would. I'm very popular and no one really likes you at all."

"Oh, just shut up already.”

“Um, I… I c-could, um, I c-could maybe help…?” Mikan murmured, drawing to a stop beside them, her words almost lost beneath the wind and the roar of the ocean below.

He hadn't even realized she'd been following behind them, too caught up in the full time job of wrangling Komaeda to notice or care.

For his part, Komaeda turned to smile sweetly at her, “How unlucky I am to have such a useless-”

He slapped a hand across his mouth to muffle whatever garbage he was intent on spewing this time, “No, no, it's fine, thanks, Mikan, I can handle him.”

“O-oh… y-you seemed as if you were s-struggling and I…” she trailed off, biting her lip nervously and gesturing helplessly to them both before returning her hands to her apron, her fingers worrying against the edges.

"No, we're fi-oh,  _c'mon,_ " Komaeda’s tongue had licked a sloppy path across his palm, wriggling warm and damp against his skin until he finally relented and pulled his hand back with a grimace, wiping it against the sleeve of his stupid, sweat-soaked jacket.

“You should be careful,” Komaeda warned, leaning forward towards her before he could yank him back, his voice low and serious. “I’ve heard that there’s a  _troll_  living beneath this bridge who gobbles up naughty girls who only think of themselves.”

Her face flushed bright red, hands curling into fists in her apron as she reeled back away from him, “I-I-I-I w-w-w-w-“

“Sorry. Just ignore him, Mikan,” he sighed, yanking Komaeda back against his side once more and turning him around so that he stood between them. “Just go on ahead already, we can manage on our own.”

And for all that he had been trying to be nice and spare her whatever the hell was going on with Komaeda, she still looked for all the world like he’d told her he'd just murdered a basket full of puppies and it was all her fault.

“O-oh, um, if y-you’re sure….” She murmured, eyes held wide like she was trying to stave off tears.

Why the hell was she  _crying_?

He had just been trying to....

What the actual  _fuck_  was  _wrong_  with everyone today?

“Yeah, it’s, look, it's  _fine_. I’m just,” he began hesitantly, glancing around desperately in the hopes that someone else would appear out of nowhere and handle this situation for him. 

"All the palm trees are made from ice cream," Komaeda offered helpfully.

Oh, fuck this day.

“Look," he sighed finally, deciding the truth was the least daunting option available. "I’m sure you’d be a huge help, but I really don’t want him saying anything else mean to you. It’s not fair to either of you. Normally he’s tripping over himself to complement everyone because he's a giant talent dork so he probably hates every second of this. Just go already. I’ll get him to the hospital as soon as I can.”

“O-okay, th-thank you, th-that's very kind of you, Mister H-Hinata,” she offered him a tentative, shaky smile before turning on her heel and dashing away after the others.

“Hinata wants to see you naked,” Komaeda called after her, waving cheerfully with his free hand and leaning hard enough against him to send them both stumbling sideways.

“Would you stop saying stuff like that? She’s going to get the wrong idea.”

“This was all just a ploy to get me alone, wasn’t it?” Komaeda replied, unfazed by his admonishments.

“I’m not… oh my god, just shut  _up_  already,” he grumbled, face blazing hot as he tightened his hold on Komaeda and began the slow descent to the next island, intently ignoring the looks some of the others were casting back their way. “I can’t believe sick you is even more annoying than regular you.”

“Hinata,” he replied, his voice serious and utterly composed. “I’ve never been sick a day in my life.”

The sun was in his eyes, blinding as they stumbled together down the bridge.

He woke on a cold floor, cheek numb, head buzzing.

He could smell the familiar stench of blood and rain water.

How had he… where…?

The voice that answered his unspoken question was soft and feminine, flat and familiar: "Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent."

It hurts a lot more to say it aloud, “Chiaki?”

Like he’d dredged the word up from the very depths of his soul, like just saying it has scrapped his throat raw, as if just thinking it was her should have made him  _bleed_.

"Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent," her voice replied and he realized too late to stifle the ache of loss in his chest that he was wrong.

It wasn’t her at all.

Because of course it wasn’t.

She was gone.

And she’d never sounded anything like that.

Not really.

She’d been… different.

She’d never really sounded like the computer program she’d been.

Not really.

Not to him.

"Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent.”

He wasn’t sure how he’d thought even for a moment that it sounded anything like her.

Wishful thinking, maybe?

What did that even mean?

Quarantine?

Evacuation?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

"Warning: Evacuation Order: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent.”

No, it didn’t really sound like her at all.

But, even if it had, she was gone and he had to focus on saving what remained.

Even before he opened his eyes he knew he was in that hospital room again, that when he finally psyched himself up enough to look he’d find Komaeda lying beside him, inches away.

And he wasn’t disappointed.

He was there, but the sight still stole his breath away.

Because it wasn't really him.

Not really.

It was just a flickering, washed out image of him like an old photograph or a freeze-frame from an aging video.

And for a moment he wasn’t sure if either of them was truly real.

If either of them had ever really existed in the first place.

“Komaeda?” He tried, voice breaking across the second syllable so that the last came out as barely anything more than a whisper.

Was he too late?

Was the Komaeda he thought he'd known already gone?

Was this all that was left?

Just this weird afterimage?

The room felt real enough even if he didn’t remember how he’d gotten there, if he’d gotten there at all.

The air around him was stiflingly warm and the tiles were cool beneath his chest, his arms.

He could feel the damp of water or blood smearing beneath his fingers as he pushed them across the floor between them.

It was just a few inches, but it somehow felt like thousands of miles, hundreds of years.

He wasn’t really surprised when his hand slipped through the flickering facade to smear through an unseen puddle beyond it, beneath it.

He pulled his hand back and reached for him once more, made a grab for his shoulder and watched his hand slip right through him again, disappearing through his shirt to slap hard against the floor beneath.

Panic rose up in his throat, thick enough to choke.

He squeezed his eyes shut as if that might keep him from screaming and when he opened them again he was standing on the bridge once more.

In the dark, in the rain, breathing hard, still choking on that same panic, hands trembling.

Had he been there the whole time? Wavering on his feet at the apex of the bridge?

He wasn’t sure.

He wasn’t sure of anything except… Komaeda.

He needed to get to Komaeda.

He needed….

And then he was there again, laying on the cold floor once again in the stifling heat of the on-call room, but the Komaeda laying beside him looks solid, real, in a way he hadn’t before.

He could hear the rain beating against the windows, the soft wheeze of his breath.

“Komaeda? Can you hear me?” He asked, mouth so dry he had to choke the words out and if he hadn’t been lying right there, inches away, he’d never have seen his lips frame the silent syllables of affirmation.

Relief makes him feel so light-headed it’s almost painful.

He was still there. 

Still there.

He wanted to touch him, feel his breath against his skin.

Something.

Anything.

Just to be sure.

But there's nothing, still nothing even as he reached out to brush his forefinger across the air where his lips should be.

“You have to get up," he said finally, letting his hand drop to rest on the floor between them.

“Get up?” Komaeda’s raspy voice echoed the words, soft as a whisper and hollow as rotting oak as he finally opened his eyes to stare vacantly through him. He didn’t even bother to look around, as if the idea that he was actually there and not just a voice in his head hadn’t even occurred to him.

"Why?" He asked, a smile quirking across his lips as if the very idea of moving were humorous.

And he wanted to be angry.

He wanted to be _furious_.

He _did_.

But it was just… it was just such a Komaeda thing to _say_ , to _do_.

To just… just give up.

Like his life wasn’t anything worth holding on to.

He went on and on and on and on and on and on about his stupid hope, about his hope for them and then he just  _gave up_.

Like his life was  _nothing_.

Just something to be used as a means to an end.

Like no one would care when he was gone.

He rolled onto his back and pressed the heels of his hands down hard against his eyes as the first burst of laughter bubbled past his lips.

Thunder rumbled overhead and the rain returned, cold and unrelenting. He could feel the uneven, spongy boards beneath his back and he just laughed harder and and harder until he was breathless and no longer sure if he laughing or sobbing.

Komaeda probably wouldn’t have cared either way.

“I hate you. I hate you so fucking much,” he screamed into the storm, the sound vanishing beneath the howl of the wind and the persistent patter of rain.

"I really hate you," he muttered, as much to himself as to the boy lying on the floor of the on-call room.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he finally clamoured back to his feet and began to walk again, only that when he did his steps were slow and sluggish and his head ached.

Would he just fucking lay there if he didn’t get there in time?

Just let whatever happened happen?

Would he even care?

He wasn’t sure, but his stomach was heavy with dread, churning sickly at the memory of that weird afterimage.

That terrible, hopeless smile.

“Can’t you at least try to help me out a little?” He muttered, weaving a little as he swiped hair out of his face, tucking it back behind his ear.

It would help if he at least knew what he was trying to save him from.

How long he had to manage it.

Games had rules.

Programs had rules.

What were they?

Was there a time limit?

If he didn’t make it in time would Komaeda disappear for good?

Was Mikan already gone?

He’d heard her voice before.

He was certain he had.

Even if it had been weird, off, it had still been her.

If he just knew _something_ , anything at all, it wouldn’t feel like such an impossible task.

The worst thing about it was it felt like he _should_ know, like he'd known once and just forgotten somehow.

Like knowledge was just leaking away, leaving him to wander alone and unarmed.

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He paused to rub at his forehead.

It hurt worse then before.

Maybe.

He wasn’t sure.

He wasn’t sure of anything except that nothing would matter if he couldn’t make sure they were safe.

It wouldn’t matter if he was losing his mind, if he was sick or mad or damaged beyond repair.

It wouldn’t matter if he was Hajime Hinata or Izuru Kamukura or the person he thought he was in those times between when he was so sure he'd finally started to get a handle on himself, on what had happened, on what he wanted.

None of that would matter if they weren’t safe.

And the rest... everything he thought had happened since they'd gone to confront her.

None of that would matter either.

Because if it wasn’t over…

If it wasn’t over and he wasn’t out… then none of it was real.

Not the boards on which he walked or the rain pouring down across his shoulders or the occasional spike of pain from the cuts on his feet.

Not skeletal hands dragging him down or red-nailed fingers prying him open, crawling inside.

Not Sonia sitting beside him on the bed speaking with him in quiet tones in the green-lit darkness of his room.

Not Akane trimming his hair.

Not Fuyuhiko sitting at the table opposite him, laughing.

Not Kazuichi trying so hard to be comforting and failing so miserably.

Not Togami's disdain or Naegi's attempts at assurance or even that terrible coffee.

None of that had been real.

Or at least he hoped it hadn't been.

There was no way to know for sure.

To know if they were safe and every moment with them had been faked, some trick to lull him into believing he was out, safe.

Or if they were real, as real as he was, as real as he thought Komaeda was, and they were all just  _stuck_  in this place, floundering around in the trap, believing they'd made it out.

In the end, he hoped they were just in his head.

That only  _he_  was real.

That only what had happened between them in this place mattered.

That only they were still… stuck.

That the only ones they needed to save were themselves.

Because it meant that if he could just find him... everything would be okay.

They’d be okay.

They’d wake up and everything and everyone would be okay.

Only he had no reason to think that.

Not really.

No reason to believe in anything or anyone.

No reason to believe in the possibility of salvation.

Wasn’t even certain if he truly cared about any of this or if he just thought he should.

If finding Komaeda and…

Finding Komaeda and....

And...?

There’d been someone there with him, hadn’t there?

Someone….

Someone he knew.

A girl.

There’d been a girl and she'd been... she _was_ a… friend.

She was….

He could _almost_ hear her saying his name.

Could feel her weight pressing down against him, her body shifting against his own...

Almost…

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Mikan.

Right.

He'd known that.

It had been such a long night and his head felt heavy, thick, weighted down by exhaustion; it was no wonder he was forgetting things, no wonder he was confused.

It didn’t really matter anyway.

He just needed to get to the hospital.

Just needed to get to them and then they could go find the others.

Others…?

Had there been others?

Who were they?

He could feel their names on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t quite form them, couldn't quite find the shape the syllables were supposed to take.

He knew them.

He _did_.

They had names, names he'd said dozens of times, hundreds maybe, but he just… he couldn’t quite….

They had  _faces_ , but he couldn’t quite picture them.

They'd been people he cared about.

Hadn't they?

He  _had_  cared about them, hadn't he?

They'd meant  _something_  to him, hadn't they?

So why... why couldn't he  _remember_  them?

Why couldn't he....

They'd been… friends.

Friends?

Was that the right word?

They had been friends, hadn't they?

_Hadn't they?_

He could remember… what was her name?

The girl….

There had definitely been a girl.

Something with an M?

She’d had long hair and she’d been kind of... nervous. Hadn’t she?

What had her name been… why couldn’t he…?

He could remember Komaeda at least.

He was sure of that much.

Everything about him.

The way he looked, felt, the rasp of his voice, the taste of him, the way he... hated him sometimes… most times.

How awful he was.

How he'd liked him anyway.

Or maybe because of how awful he was.

He wasn't quite sure on that point.

But he knew he'd definitely liked him, even when he hated him.

He'd been frustrating, so frustrating, but he'd also been... he  _was_...  _important_.

He remembered him.

Would always remember him.

Because he  _knew_  him.

Even things he shouldn't have known about him, things he’d never told him, things that seemed strange and uncertain and made up, but he knew,  _knew_  to be true.

But all the others... there was  _nothing_.

Just empty spaces where they used to be even though only a moment ago it seemed as if he'd been worried about them.

Scared for them.

Now there was just...

Nothing.

Nothing beyond himself and the desire to find him.

Because he was in danger.

Wasn't he?

Why did he think that?

Why?

What was he doing?

He'd been going somewhere hadn't he?

He glanced around somehow surprised to find himself standing in the middle of a bright-red bridge suspended high over dark water.

What had he been...?

_Komaeda._

Right.

He'd been looking for Komaeda.

Who was Komaeda?

_Important._

Komaeda was important.

Komaeda was at the hospital.

He needed to go there.

Needed to tell him.

What was it he needed to tell him?

He was certain there was something.

Something important.

Something.

_Something...._

**[ERROR_SHARING_VIOLATION (0x20)]  
** ….loading….

There was something he needed to tell him.

That he...

Something.

There'd been something else too.

They were still playing her game.

Right.

He needed to tell them that too.

Them?

There had been others, hadn't there?

It definitely hadn't been just the two of them.

There had been others.

They'd been...

Friends.

He’d cared about them.

Hadn't he?

Cared enough to hold onto them... hadn't he?

Were they really so important?

He wasn't sure.

Komaeda, though, Komaeda was _important_.

He  _knew_  that.

Important because he... he was... because he  _was_.

It didn't matter why.

But the others...

He wasn't sure.

He knew there had been others.

But all that was left of them was a vague impression of the time they'd spent together.

Fear and grief and anger and joy and he thought... he  _thought_ he could remember being almost happy sometimes, but he couldn't... couldn't quite put any of those scattered, fragmented emotions together to form a coherent picture.

He scrambled frantically for something, anything, to cling to, to hold up as proof of their existence, their importance, but everything had been scrubbed over, wiped clean.

Their faces were a blur, their voices filled with static in his memory of their time together.

Only Komaeda came through clearly, answering questions he couldn't hear, gesturing wildly at people he could not see.

He could even hear him say their names, but the moment he’d formed the last syllable the words seemed to vanish, washed away like all the rest.  
  


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	20. Scrambling to the Shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...the time had come to talk...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to catch me on [tumblr](http://midnight-run-amok.tumblr.com/) where I will no doubt blather on far more extensively about this update. ^_^
> 
> Also, worth mentioning: you remember all those content warnings from Ch1? That huge chunk of text that I put there because having it in tags had gotten a little ridiculous? All those warnings still all very much apply so, you know, maybe check in on those if you feel the need. Oky dokey, that said, you're on your own from here, my dudes. Cheers. :)

**DAY THREE**  
-continued-  
**03:48:57 UTC**

**+++**

_“All I could think of when I got a look at the place from the outside was what fun it would be to stand out there and watch it burn down.”_  
―Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House

**+++**

There were no smiles to capture, but she still carried the camera with her anyway.

She’d had it for so long that to lose that familiar weight from around her neck now would have felt like discarding a piece of her soul.

And, more than that, leaving it behind would have felt like giving in.

Like an admission it was all… real.

Would be like giving up any hope of ever seeing them again- ever seeing  _anyone_  again- and she just… couldn't bear the thought of living in a world without smiles.

Was this her punishment?

For everything she had done?

Everything she hadn't?

 **[ERROR_BAD_PATHNAME (0xA1)]  
**....loading....

_Click._

There was so much pink and red and the floor was just a truly unfortunate wash of browns and gray, bland and boring and just the worst possible backdrop for these shots.

This wouldn't do.

It was wrong.

It was all  _wrong_.

“I can't work like this,” she muttered, kneeling down to take another shot of the dismembered hand lying pale and bloody beside an empty soda can and a half-eaten donut.

There was so little of her left.

Hardly anything that made her look anything like herself, even her head….

She glanced back at the ragged knot of singed blond hair lying atop a pile of wadded up toilet paper and used tampons.

She’d already taken a dozen shots of it though she wasn’t completely happy with any of them.

It was all wrong.

Wrong, wrong,  _wrong_.

She needed something to humanize her, to make her live again, even if it was just for a moment.

“Hey… we the first ones here?”

Souda Kazuichi.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t expected him to come, she knew they’d all be there eventually, but she’d never expected him to be among the first to arrive.

He stank of stale liquor and unwashed skin as he sauntered in and planted himself beside her.

It made her fingers twitch, her skin itch.

She’d never liked him.

He’d always reminded her too much of her father.

Of coming home to find him sprawled out on their couch, snoring, surrounded by a sea of empty beer cans.

Of the stench of burnt food and cheap perfume and failure.

Just another useless  _man_.

“Oh geez, look what they did to her,” he murmured, mouth hanging open as he stared around the room like a lost tourist. “She’s just  _everywhere_ , isn’t she?”

He burped loudly, grimacing and covering his mouth with the back of his hand, mumbling some half-assed apology.

“Are you drunk?” She demanded, fingers aching where they gripped the camera in her hands.

He snorted, dragging a hand back through limp scraggly pink hair, “Not nearly drunk enough for this shit. This is just… can you believe she did this?”

Had he known her at all?

She remembered seeing them together a few times, but when she’d asked about it, asked if they were dating, if they were friends, Junko had just laughed and laughed.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” she’d murmured, leaning in close, lips brushing against her cheek, breath cool and minty fresh. “Boys like that… boys like that are easy. They’re weak and they  _know_  they’re weak, they’re all just looking for a crutch even if they don't know it. Give them something to lean on and they totally forget they could ever walk on their own. And then they’re yours, whenever you want them, because they’ve given you the keys to the kingdom and you can just reach inside them and pull everything out, everything that ever meant anything to them and make them tear it to pieces. Because they want you to do it. To take away all the things that can hurt them, hollow them out until there's nothing left.”

She’d leaned away, laughing as she flopped back on the floor beside her, arms folded behind her head, hair spread out all around her. “Of course, it kind of takes the fun out of it, don't you think? I mean, who wants to play with a broken toy, right? But if you just leave them one thing, one last good thing, they'll build their whole existence around that one thing and that… that's when things get really interesting.”

“…I mean how did her leg even get up there?” He exclaimed, the grating volume of his voice calling her back to the unpleasant quandary of the present.

He continued rattling on, apparently content to listen to himself speak.

Idiot.

She cast another glance around the room, gaze settling on the largest part her to survive the execution, most of her torso and thighs.

On its own it was just an anonymous chunk of flesh and blood and tattered clothing, nothing to write home about on its own, but….

“Would you like another drink?” She offered, interrupting whatever it was he’d been saying.

It’d probably just been some bullshit about how much he’d miss her or maybe he was just trying to figure out what he’d do without her there to point him in the right direction.

_Click._

The way his eyes lit up at the mere suggestion.

_Pathetic._

“Huh? Seriously?”

“Sure, I have a whole bottle of vodka squirreled away for a rainy day. You can have it if you want.”

“What’s the catch?” he asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion like it mattered, like he wouldn’t do what she asked, anything she asked, to have it.

She knew that look.

That desperation.

That deep black pit in the very heart of you that couldn’t ever be filled, couldn’t be covered or patched over or disguised. 

He’d do what she asked, whatever she asked.

She just had to find the right leverage.

“I want you to have sex with Junko one last time.“

“Huh? But she's… oh… oh! What? What do you…. No! N-no fucking way!”

_Click._

“Oh, you’re going to do it,” she murmured, looking down at the picture she’d taken of his face, that shocked look, that pathetic protest. “It’ll be easy. It’s just posing. It’s not like I’d actually ask you to do something like that if you didn’t  _want_  to. You’re a man, aren’t you? I’m sure she’s still decently warm and that part of her is still in pretty good shape, all things considered.”

“Screw you, I’m not that freaking drunk,  _okay_?”

“Look, I need a model and you’re the only one here. You don’t even have to undress if you don’t want to. Actually, it’s probably better if you don’t. Just pull your dick out and stick it in. I’m sure it’ll only take a second.”

“I don’t-“

What a waste of time.

Best to cut the bullshit.

“I know it was your fault.”

_Click._

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

_Click._

Confusion.

He hasn’t quite realized yet, hasn’t quite put it all together. Maybe it’s the drink, maybe he’s just that slow, either way he needs a push in the right direction, a shove, right over the edge.

“Those hamsters. I know it was your fault.”

_Click._

And there it was. Understanding. Realization. Horror.  _Pain._

_Click._

He looks pale, sick.

He’s trying to be angry, but he can’t quite manage to pull rage out of that tangle of emotion.

_Click._

He’s terrified and it’s  _beautiful_.

“They weren’t… I didn't… just… just sh-shut the hell up, you don’t know  _anything_ about it. You don’t… you just… it wasn’t my  _fault_. I didn’t… shut up, just  _shut up_.”

_Click._

Pleading.

Desperate.

So  _weak_.

“I knew it. I knew you weren’t man enough to tell him what you did. You’re  _disgusting_. Did you think about what you'd taken from him every time you guys started screwing around? You did, didn’t you? Men. You’re all the same, all of you,  _cowards_. Nothing more than sniveling, whining, pathetic cowards.”

_Click._

Devastation.

_Click._

“Y-You don’t know anything about it. About  _us_. So, just… you just shut  _up_.”

Bravado now, such a weak show of anger.

He’s probably been trying to drown the guilt for years, but guilt never goes away, it never shuts up and now it’s probably the loudest it’s ever been, a scream in his head that just won’t stop, an agony that won’t ever fade. 

_Click._

Because that’s what love does to you.

_Click._

Love makes everything beautiful until it goes wrong, until you do something that can never be forgiven and then it begins to rot, to eat you away from the inside until it consumes everything that was good inside you.

Until it becomes that hole at the very center of your being, that terrible empty space that nothing can ever fill.

The strong cut away the bad tissue, sever what was so that whatever’s left can survive, can learn to thrive, can become something  _new_.

But he wasn’t strong.

He was just a man.

And men were  _weak_.

_Click._

“Would it break his heart to know, do you think?” She inquired, conversationally, flipping back through the last few photos with a smile before raising her lens again.

_Click._

He looked like he’s going to throw up.

_Click._

“Shut up. Please, just… just shut  _up_ ,” he whispers the last and it feels like victory.

_Click._

Fingers tangled in ratty pink hair, knuckles white, eyes wide with panic.

_Click._

So much pain.

_Click._

Such exquisite  _despair_.

It could make even someone like him seem beautiful.

“You’ll never have to know if you do this favor for me,” she lied, smiling easily as she focused in on his eyes, his mouth. “It's not like I'm asking for much. Plus, I’ll even throw in the booze to make it an easier pill to swallow.”

_Click._

Cry.

_Click._

Please cry.

_Click._

Magnificent.

“Fine,” he murmured, gaze turned to the side, arms wrapped around his stomach. “Fine, whatever, I'll…yeah, I'll do it just…  _don’t_.”

Men were all the same.

 _Weak_.

Willing to do anything to avoid facing the consequences of their actions.

They were all such  _cowards._

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** ….loading….loading….loading….

Her head ached, a constant throbbing pain right behind her eyes that made it difficult to focus, to remember what she was doing from one moment to the next.

It was worse when the sun was up so she'd spent that first day cowering in her cabin waiting out the heat of the day until she could use the cover of night to go to the supermarket and find a pair of sunglasses.

They helped, but her head still hurt.

It hurt so much.

Sometimes the world spun and spun and she had to hold onto to something, anything, but it never slowed down, never stopped, and sometimes she would throw up all over the floor.

Would pass out and wake up to find the floor clean, pristine, as if nothing had ever happened.

Except her head still ached.

Her head ached and ached and ached.

But at least with the sunglasses it had been tolerable enough that she’d been able to go out and start looking for them.

Even though, in the end, there’d been no one to be found.

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** ….loading….

The pale of his body made a far better backdrop than those dingy, crusty garbage floors, but it still wasn't  _enough_.

It still wasn’t quite  _right_.

The lighting was just all  _wrong_ … there just wasn't enough  _contrast_.

_Click._

Focus in on the sticky tufts of dark hair and pale flesh, streaks of red.

Better.

But it still wasn't quite right.

Wasn’t quite the shot she was looking for, not really, but it was closer.

She was getting  _closer_ , she could  _feel_  it.

_Click._

_Click._

_Click._

Maybe she should have brought the 35mm rather than the 50mm lens after all.

The lighting in the room was just so  _poor_ , but if she had taken the time to light it properly she wouldn't have been able to capture these moments, capture them all streaming in, a motley collection of mourners to attend her gruesome wake. Her body was already breaking down, the stench of rot heavy even though it had only been a few hours.

The room was stiflingly hot.

_Click._

His hands searching for a decent grip, splayed against the floor so he could touch her cooling flesh as little as possible.

_Weak._

They were already running out of time.

Those knobs from the Future Foundation could show up any time now that the game was over and their precious children had been released back into the wild.

_Click._

Fingers clenched into a fist, banging against the floor like the pain might keep him focused, keep him from passing out or throwing up.

_Click._

_Click._

Mikan was already packing bits of her away in ice, what little could be salvaged and preserved, those precious pieces of her that could be saved by making them a part of themselves.

But that would be different.

That wouldn’t be her.

It wasn’t  _enough_  just to preserve a few odds and ends.

She had been  _important_.

She’d changed the world.

Every moment needed to be documented, to be  _preserved_.

_Click._

Yes, allowing pieces of her to live on through them was nice and all, but she needed more than that.

She  _deserved_ more than that.

Because that wouldn’t be a true reflection of who she had been.

That’s why it was so important, vital, necessary to document these last moments, to record every last scrap of her.

_Click._

How would people ever  _understand_  her otherwise?

They might remember her, sure, after all she’d left quite an impression on every life she’d touched, but that wasn’t the  _same_.

It wasn’t  _good enough_.

_Click._

“Are you done yet? Can we go? This is so gross.”

_Click._

She was beautiful, lifting her precious kimono so it wouldn’t drag through the mess, the pristine white of her socks glowing against the darkness of the floor beneath them.

She hadn’t seen her in weeks. She’d been touring with Ibuki while she’d been busy documenting the Future Foundation’s ridiculous attempts to win their way past Junko’s defenses into the school.

Idiots.

She offered her a brief smile before turning her attention back to her subject, “You can wait outside if you want, I’m almost done. I just need to get a few more shots. Just a couple of close-ups.”

Just a few more.

Just one more.

The perfect shot.

She just needed to find it.

She was getting close.

Memories faded.

Photographs… photographs were moments of truth frozen in time, unchangeable.

They didn’t lie.

_Click._

They couldn’t.

_Click._

Junko had understood that.

Photographs were necessary to document all that had happened properly, to spread the truth to all those who saw them.

In this way they could preserve even those parts of her that they couldn't take with them, those broken bits of her that were no longer truly recognizable, that were already beginning to stink and rot around them.

It's why she'd asked him, why she'd bribed and cajoled him until he agreed, because she  _needed_  this,  _they_  needed this.

So that they would be able to remember her properly.

Remember the  _truth_  of her.

Capture it in one indelible, perfect image that represented everything she was and ever she might have been.

Because Junko would have  _loved_  this, all of it.

Loved the despair her death inspired in them.

The lengths they were willing to go to be with her.

To keep her with them.

_Click._

Would have loved these last revolting, depraved, beautiful, imperfect images of what remained of her.

Would have laughed at the retching noises he made as he slid against what was left of her.

How pathetic he looked.

_Click._

How small he seemed, how insignificant.

Even like this she was untouchable, unattainable.

Click.

Flaccid.

_Click._

Pathetic.

_Click._

Men truly were  _worthless,_ weren't they? 

So  _weak_.

He couldn't even do this one last thing for her. 

This one last thing to honor her memory.

Even with all that incentive.

He couldn’t even get it up.

What a  _failure_ he was.

Though Junko would have loved that too.

She tapped a finger beneath his chin so that he would raise his face into the light.

He grimaced, his face sickly pale in the uneven lighting, sweat heavy and glistening across his brow, greasy hair flopping against his cheeks in time with every uneven, laborious thrust.

He looked so miserable with his eyes squeezed shut and that filthy jumpsuit shoved down around his knees, so desperate.

He kept muttering beneath his breath, urging his body to a completion it would never reach.

He would fail and even if he didn’t… it would end the same way: with her confessing all his secrets and letting the chips fall where they may.

But he already knew that.

She’d seen it in his eyes when he’d agreed to her terms.

He knew how this was going to end.

Even if he couldn't admit it to himself, sh knew he  _wanted_  it to end like that.

They were all alike in that way.

They all longed for the same misery, the same  _despair_ , they all shared similar appetites for destruction.

They’d all spend whatever remained of their lives chasing after the things that hurt them the most, seeking similar ends.

It was what had drawn them to her.

Drawn them to each other.

Such  _despair_.

It took her breath away.

Junko would have  _loved_  it.

“Don’t forget to smile! That’s the most important part,” she reminded him, “And, look, you’ve really got to get in there. I’m not paying you to fuck around, you know.”

And she could almost hear her laughing in the back of her head.

Pu.

Pu.

Pu.

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** ….loading….

On the fourth day, she held the camera out and took pictures of her own face, but the smiles all came out wrong.

Lopsided and crooked and strange.

She’d always hated selfies.

There was blood matted in her hair and she kept forgetting about it and it made her stomach dip and her sight blur every time she accidentally reached up and brushed her fingers against it, over it.

Someone had hit her?

No, that didn't seem right.

Sato.

Someone had hit Sato.

Sato was dead.

He'd  _killed_  her.

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_** _....loading...._

No,  _she'd_  killed her.

It hadn’t been his fault, it had been  _hers_.

Hers for not stopping her, for not seeing, not understanding.

Not saying the right there.

Not saying  _anything_.

It was all her fault.

It had always been her fault.

Sweet Sato who had always spoken up for her, who had always looked out for her, who had always....

She was the one to blame.

She'd always been the one to blame.

_Always._

Al-al-al-al-al-al-

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**....loading....

The principal closed her portfolio with a heavy sigh and her heart sank into her shoes, dread coiling tight and heavy in her stomach like a snake hiding beneath a rock.

She knew she needed to focus, that this review was important, but she just… she couldn’t get that image out of her head.

Couldn’t shake free of the way Sato had looked when she’d confronted her about it.

The look in her eyes that morning… so hard, so  _different_  then the girl she’d known.

 _Thought_  she’d known.

It had been like staring into the eyes of a stranger.

Someone she’d never met and didn’t want to know.

She hadn’t slept at all since they’d found Kazuryuu’s body, had been plagued by images of the scene whenever she tried. 

It was her hands.

She wasn't sure why exactly, but that was what stuck with her the most.

What she kept seeing every time she closed her eyes.

Her longer delicate fingers.

If she’d thought about it might have been because she’d expected them to lay flat, like being dead should have smoothed out all those gentle curves, all the ways the body sought to protect itself, to express itself.

But they hadn't been.

They'd been curled, just ever so slightly, as if they were just waiting for someone to come and brush their fingers across them.

As if she were only sleeping and a simple touch might wake her up.

Might make it so it was all nothing more than a dream.

She kept seeing them there.

Limp and pale and splattered with water and tiny glass fragments where they’d lain across the tile of that classroom floor.

_Click._

How she'd been able to see every bead of water, the way the light had reflected off the sharp edges of the each piece of glass as she'd focused in to take each shot.

_Click._

_Click._

Kept remembering the way those hands had looked holding a camera, the way light had glinted off her rings, her well-manicured nails.

Kept remembering the few photos she had taken of her during their middle school years, those brief flickers of joy on a face that had clearly known so little, a face that had so often been pinched and bitter.

She’d always loved those pictures.

Those pictures had always reminded her why she loved photographing the smiles of others.

Reminded her why she did it even when others questioned her work, compared it to her mother’s again and again.

Those pictures reminded her that there was light to be found in even the darkest spaces.

She hadn’t liked her.

Sometimes she’d even been a little afraid of her, had maybe even hated her a little, but she’d… she’d never wanted  _that_.

Never wanted her gone.

Not like  _that_.

Never like that.

Never, never,  _never_.

The principal sighed heavily, drawing her attention back to him, back to the present.

Her camera felt like a millstone around her neck and she had to press her hands together to stop them from shaking.

“I’m afraid this is simply unacceptable, Miss Kozumi. This subject matter is amateurish at best and while each photo is, of course, quite skillfully taken, it simply isn’t up to the level which we’ve come to expect from the exceptionally talented students of Hope’s Peak. As you know, we only accept a fraction of those who are scouted or apply for our program and while it is uncommon for one who has been chosen to attend to be asked to resign, it certainly is not unheard of. If you do not show marked improvement in the few remaining months of this term, I’m afraid I won’t be able to ask you to return. You will, of course, be eligible to attend the reserve program, if you so choose, but I believe that would be difficult for you considering your family situation. As such, I would highly suggest you choose a more appropriate subject matter for your final project so that you might keep your place.”

“Sir,” she whispered, fingers clenching around the leather of the portfolio he pressed into her hands by way of dismissal.

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**....loading....

She didn’t remember leaving the office, only the ache in her chest and holding her eyes wide so the tears blurring her vision wouldn’t fall.

Didn’t remember leaving the building or going to the reserve class dormitories.

Her feet had just seemed to find their way to her door all on their own.

“Mahiru? Are you okay?”

She remembered her portfolio being carefully removed from her arms, remembered a soft chest and the warmth of arms coiling around her when the first sob finally broke free.

Everything was falling apart.

“Oh, Mahiru,” she murmured, fingers stroking over her hair, nails scrapping across her scalp. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“I don’t want to change,” she'd whispered, fingers shaking, digging in against Sato’s back.

This was  _Sato_.

 _Her_  Sato.

Nothing had changed.

With her arms around her, it felt like the last week had just been some terrible dream.

“Then don’t,” she’d replied, as if it were obvious, as if it were that simple. “I’ll support you, I’ll always support you no matter what. You don’t have to change at all if you don’t want to. If they can’t see how... how  _wonderful_  you are then… then the  _hell_  with them. You won’t be any less brilliant just because you don’t go to this stupid school.”

She laughed despite herself, choking on her sobs, “But isn’t that ungrateful? My mom….”

“Your mom is your mom and you’re you. I think you’re perfect just the way you are, I mean I… I love you. Just as you are.”

She said the last quickly, softly, whispered it fast like a secret even though there was no one else around to hear them, fingers clutching tight and bloodless against her own.

It wasn’t as if she hadn't been expecting the confession, if it was even a confession at all.

Not really.

She'd always known that Sato loved her.

When she’d thought about it later, turned it over and over and over in her mind, it had seemed like she’d been waiting to hear those words almost her whole life with the quiet assurance that eventually they would come.

It had never been a question of if, only of when.

She’d known Sato loved her ever since they’d been nothing more than babies playing in the sand together at the park, her first camera hanging around her neck and Sato had punched a boy who’d been making fun of them for sitting close together, for holding hands.

She’d known ever since Sato had leaned over and planted a sloppy wet kiss on her cheek afterwards, had apologized over and over again, patting her hair and wiping away her tears like it had been her fault that boys were mean even though it wasn’t.

Sato’s gap-toothed grin had been the first smile she’d ever captured, too dark and grainy and more than a little blurry.

She still had the Polaroid taped up in her room, faded by the years and pockmarked by pinpricks from where it had been pinned or taped to the headboard of every bed she’d ever slept in.

A memory and a good luck charm all rolled into one.

She’d always known Sato loved her.

Whether it was as a friend or a sister or something more… she’d always known.

Sometimes, afterwards, she’d thought that it had been that love that helped her find herself again whenever she lost confidence, that certainty that shored her up and kept her from crumbling beneath the pressure of living in her mother’s shadow.

And maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t, but in the moment… in that moment when Sato had looked to her for help, looked to her for assurance….

In that moment, she hadn’t been able to say anything at all.

Any answer she might have given had stuck in her throat, turned to ice by the sudden memory of those pictures she’d taken, those pictures she’d printed out as if in making them larger, making them  _real_ , she could prove they weren’t true, that none of it was true.

That Kuzuryuu was alive and the broken vase meant nothing and everything would be fine and nothing,  _nothing_  had changed.

She’d stood over her body for long minutes snapping photo after photo, mind blissfully blank as she zoomed in on Kuzuryuu’s face, on her hands, on the broken glass around her as the room grew dark around her.

_Click._

_Click._

_Click._

She’d taken picture after picture before fleeing the room, her steps echoing through the empty halls.

All those pictures just to prove to herself that the world hadn’t changed.

Only it  _had_.

 _Everything_  had changed.

The bedrock on which she had built her life had shifted and the world had fallen into ruin and nothing would ever,  _could ever_  be the same.

She’d erased them all, burned the fragments of the prints Sato had torn to shreds, but that terrible memory of Sato insisting she didn’t have anything to worry about and what it had really meant remained, lingering inside her like a curse.

And every time she’d lifted her camera since, it was that broken flower vase, those limp hands she saw.

People still smiled, but that warm feeling she used to get whenever she managed to capture those moments of ordinary happiness was gone as if it had never been there at all.

Smiles were just smiles.

People just people.

It had only been a few days, maybe things would get better with time, but….

Someone would never smile again because of her.

Wouldn’t it be easier if she never took another picture?

Wouldn’t it have been better if she’d never come to Hope’s Peak in the first place?

Ultimate photographer?

What she wouldn’t give to have never heard those words, never been given that stupid, stupid title, never even heard of Hope’s Peak at all.

What had it ever given her but regret?

What had it ever made her feel but not good enough?

What had it ever done but drain the joy from the things she loved most in the world?

Made every picture she took seem too dark and unfocused?

Ordinary.

Plain.

_Lame._

They said she was the best, so she had to be the best, but she no idea what that meant.

No idea what they wanted.

Only that it wasn’t her.

It might be her mother.

It might have even been Kuzuryuu.

But whoever it was, deep down, even before they’d found Kuzuryuu in that classroom… she’d already known it wasn’t her.

That it couldn’t ever be her.

That what they wanted wasn’t anything she had to give.

"I-I  _do_  you know," Sato continued, nails digging in against her knuckles. "I really do love you."

Her eyes were so wide, so fervent, so desperate, willing her to  _answer_ , to  _understand_.

And she'd just....

She’d drawn back, drawn away.

Found herself staring blankly into Sato’s expectant face as she tried to summon a response, any response at all, but there was nothing there.

Nothing inside her but an empty chamber, hollowed out by all that had happened, by all those expectations, by Kuzuryuu’s limps hands, and the sound of that confession just continued to echo inside her.

Down.

Down.

Down.

She had nothing to offer.

Maybe she never had.

But Sato loved  _her_.

Had  _killed_  for  _her_.

She owed her  _something_.

She owed her an  _answer_.

Something.

“Mahiru?"

Tentatively she offered her a smile, felt her lips trembling beneath the effort of holding it up.

It didn’t feel real.

But then nothing did.

She thought about that blurry smile pinned to her headboard and she wondered vaguely if she’d ever be able to see it the same way again.

The moment hung suspended between them in silence.

And then Sato’s smile widened as if it might crack the whole of her face with the effort she was putting into keeping it there.

She couldn’t look away from it, couldn’t even blink as it wavered, blurred into a swamp of colors by the film of tears she couldn’t allow herself to shed.

“Okay, Mahiru. I-I understand. It’s okay,” Sato’s voice had said, quiet and serious with a smile as empty as she felt. “It’s okay. It’s… it’s okay. You don’t have anything to worry about. I’m just going to… you can stay her for… for as long as you need. I’ll just… It'll be okay. You’ll be okay.”

And then she was gone, door left handing open behind her.

Just a blur of fading color and motion.

Though it seemed like she could hear her neat black dress shoes sounding her retreat to the deserted hall for a long, long time.

She’d never seen her again after that.

She’d just been gone.

Gone, gone,  _gone_.

…Until she wasn’t.

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She’d taken pictures of that too.

Of her.

Of what remained.

_Click._

_Click._

_Click._

Poured over them in the days and weeks and months and years that followed, fingers wearing through the paper again and again.

Reprinted the images over and over again.

Pining them to her wall.

Slept with them scattered all around her.

They were all she had left of her, after all.

She’d stare at the blood, at her limp hands, at the matted mess all those blows had made of her hair and the longer she looked, the more it had seemed like there was some deeper meaning to it all.

As if Sato were still trying to speak to her, to make her understand, to whisper  _‘I love you’_  through the the spray of blood across the floor, the way it coated the bat lying discarded beside her.

Through her hands lying limp against the tile.

“It’ll be okay,” she’d said. “You’ll be okay.”

And, eventually, she was.

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** ….loading….

She still took pictures of smiles.

Smiles were important, after all.

She’d just started taking pictures of other things as well.

The principal had smiled the next time she'd shown him her portfolio.

"Much better," he'd murmured, straightening his glasses. "I believe you're finally on the right track."

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** ….loading….

“These are really something,” Enoshima had murmured as she leaned over her shoulder to examine the photographs as she laid them out across the table to allow the ink time to dry.

“Do you think so?” She’d asked, distracted, mesmerized by the way her red-tipped nails looked splayed across those images, the way her fingers smeared the ink, the way they framed the pink and pale mash of scattered entrails beneath.

_Click._

She snapped another picture and another.

_Click._

_Click._

“You know," she began, a smile in her voice. "I’ve been working on something. Nothing major, just a little experiment, but I’ve been looking for someone to help me document it, you know, preserve it for posterity. I was planning to video tape it too, but there’s just something special about pictures, isn’t there? Something more immediate and real about being able to look at a single image and really study every last detail, don’t you think? It really lets you have the time to process the truth of a scene, don't you think?'

"Yes," she answered, only half listening.

_Click._

_Click._

"So, do you have plans Friday night?”

“No,” she whispered, because she didn’t ever have plans.

Not anymore.

“Oh good, because if you did I was going to make you cancel them. You  _have_  to come. It’s gonna be a blast and you’d just kill yourself if you missed out,” Enoshima grinned and for the first time in months she found herself lifting her camera to capture a smile because she wanted to rather than out of some long-engrained habit.

_Click._

Her lips were very red.

_Click._

Red as cherries.

_Click._

Red as blood.

_Click._

Her teeth were very white.

_Click._

And there was such unparalleled joy in her smile that it made her heart beat faster just to see it.

_Click._

It wasn't quite like anything else she’d ever seen.

_Click._

It was  _beautiful_.

_Click._

_She_  was beautiful.

_Click._

“Promise you’ll come,” she murmured, leaning forward so that her mouth filled the whole frame, so close that image blurred and darkened. “It won’t be  _nearly_  as much fun if you’re not there.”

_Click._

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The pictures were  _everywhere_.

Pictures of their time on the island.

So many smiling faces.

She ran her fingers over them again and again as if to memorize their features through osmosis.

Who were they?

They seemed so familiar.

So terribly familiar.

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"Daddy? Daddy, please wake up? Daddy, I think there's something wrong with the oven. There's so much smoke, Daddy, I don't know what to do. Help me, Daddy. Wake up! Please, wake up!"

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Friends?

Had they been friends or just people she'd known for a while?

Images of them splashing in the ocean.

Lying on the beach.

Dancing.

Singing.

_Killing._

Her  _friends_.

The ink bled across her hands, staining her skin black and red.

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She gathered the pictures, tore them to shreds and ate them a piece at a time.

They tasted like despair felt.

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No, that wasn't right.

That hadn't happened.

None of that had happened.

She wasn't....

She wasn't  _like that_.

She was... she was just  _confused_.

Her head hurt.

It hurt so badly all the time.

She was just confused.

Sometimes she forgot what she was doing.

Where she'd been.

Her head was throbbing and her vision was full of dark spots.

They hadn't done anything wrong.

They wouldn't.

 _She_  wouldn't.

She'd never wanted that.

_Never._

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"But Mom, look at them. Aren't they beautiful?"

"Mahiru... what... what  _is_  all this?"

"I decided I wanted to be like you, Mom. To record the world as it is. Well, I mean, not  _just_  like you, I am myself after all, and I could never be as good as you are, but I think I finally found my true passion, my true calling. Aren't they beautiful? Aren't you proud of me?”

"Are... are these  _people_...? Sweetie, I don't... I don't understand what I'm looking at."

"I know, but you will. Don't forget to smile, Mom. The smile is the most important part."

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No.

_No._

That wasn't....

Wasn't...

She wasn't like  _that_.

She hadn't done  _that_.

She  _hadn't_.

She....

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Her head still hurt, but she'd gotten better about remembering not to touch it so she was learning to live with it… more or less.

When she woke up, there’d been seven marks on the wall.

She’d made an eighth even though she wasn’t sure that’s what they meant.

She put on the sunglasses lying beside her and left her cabin to find photographs scattered everywhere.

Photographs of her… friends.

Yes,  _friends_.

Even if they hadn’t known each other for very long.

They were still her  _friends_.

Some maybe more than others, but she was sure that would have changed if they’d just had more time.

Even if the boys had all seemed pretty useless.

She gathered them all, all those photographs, one after the other, pouring over the details of each in turn.

She found them littered across the beach and the paths between.

Found they’d been left lying three layers thick across the pasture at the farm and the floor of the supermarket.

There were even a whole batch of them laid out to travel round and round on the luggage carousel at the airport.

Some were nice.

Just them lounging on the beach, playing in the sand, the water.

Halcyon days she couldn’t clearly recall.

There was one of Ibuki and Hiyoko fiddling around with a bunch of coconuts.

Another of Tanaka’s hamsters peeking up from behind a platter of fruit and one of that greasy mechanic stretching out his fingers to the particularly fat one.

There was a picture of Sonia and Tanaka discussing something passionately while Akane shoved bread in her face in the background.

Another of Akane and the big jock running across the beach, while some of the others lay under the palm trees in the background.

There was a particularly cute one of Kuzuryuu and Pekoyama sleeping side by side in a pair of lounge chairs at the hotel which she decided was one of her favorites and she kept in a pile separate from the rest.

There was one of Nanami with her hood pulled up playing another one of her games.

She felt like she’d never really gotten a chance to know her at all.

There were several of Hinata and Komaeda sitting by the pool, their pants rolled up and their feet dangling in the water.

They looked so comfortable together.

It was weird and a little sad to remember how they’d looked at each other during the trial.

To remember what Komaeda had really been like.

She found a picture shoved under a rock on the beach that featured Hiyoko drawing lewd pictures on Mikan’s face with a black marker while she slept in one of the lobby chairs.

It made her feel kind of bad just for looking at it.

There’d been half a dozen pictures pinned to a palm tree of poor Togami and Hanamura talking about something, gesturing wildly, plates of food in hand.

It would have been such an ordinary image, completely unremarkable and hardly worth keeping at all if it wasn’t for what had happened later.

The whole world was full of photos like that.

Photos that became meaningful long after they were taken.

Not that she remembered taking any of these photos.

But they seemed familiar all the same.

If only that was all there was.

But it wasn’t.

There were other pictures.

Terrible pictures.

Faces twisted in horror and pain, blood and viscera strewn across dark pavement and shining tile.

Pictures of her friends…

Her friends doing  _awful_  things, unspeakable things.

And they were all smiling.

All of them.

_Smiling._

Those weren’t the kind of smiles she’d wanted to capture.

What had happened to them?

What had happened to her?

She gathered them all as the day passed, poured over each new image as if it might hold the secret as to what went wrong, to what she had done to fail them, to fail herself.

How she'd become the sort of person who would have just stood by, stood witness to all that depravity, documented it for all the world to see and remember.

And she wondered if that was all she'd done.

And deep down she knew it  _wasn't_.

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When the rain began to fall, all she could do was  _watch_.

Watch as the ink ran from all those pages like water, staining her skin, soaking into her clothes, casting a dark stain across the sand beneath her.

Watch as the sand turned to mud as the wind picked up and all those blank pages - those black pages that had once been images of a life she still couldn't understand and could only barely remember - were hurled away, scattered out across the dark waves, vanishing as they were carried out to sea.

And, for the first time since she'd woken, head aching and alone….

Maybe for the first time in years….

She  _wept_.  

Wept for all she had lost and all she had found and lost again.

For all the things she didn't understand.

For all the things she didn’t remember.

And all the things she  _did_.

For all the mistakes she'd made.

For Sato.

For Kuzuryuu.

And, perhaps most of all, for herself. 

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	21. Walked on a Mile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...the time had come to talk...

**DAY THREE**  
**03:49:13 UTC**  
-continued-  
+++

 _“Nobody likes being alone that much. I don't go out of my way to make friends, that's all. It just leads to disappointment.”_  
― Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

**+++**

There had always been lots of things she didn’t understand.

And before… that had never mattered very much.

In part it was because no one had ever really seemed to notice or care.

Mostly it had been because she herself hadn’t noticed or cared.

She’d never thought about the fact that she didn’t know how to put on her kimono by herself as anything worth caring about when there’d always been someone around to do it for her.

It had just been how things were done, how things had _always_ been done.

She was talented and the family expected great things from her so it had seemed only natural that they do stuff for her.

She hadn’t even thought to question it when she was small.

There'd always been someone around to scrub the dirt from her body in the bath, to cut her food for her at dinner, to tend to her every whim and need.

When she'd grown older, there'd been people to see to her lessons, to teach her how to read and write in between training and performances.

And she'd never thought much about it.

It was just the way things were.

She hadn’t even thought to question why she wasn’t allowed to wear regular clothes, like the kind she saw on people outside the complex, like the kind she'd worn before she'd been taken in by Grandmother.

Because it hadn't seemed important, hadn't mattered.

Her clothes had been a symbol of her position and necessary for training.

They were special and they made her feel special when she wore them.

Ordinary, boring, stupid clothes weren’t good enough for her.

She hadn’t been meant to live an ordinary life.

She was special.

She was entitled to better.

More.

And it was easy to accept all that if she didn't think too much about it.

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Every few weeks, she'd wake to find one of Grandmother's students had cut off bits of her hair while she was sleeping, left it crooked and uneven, tufts of broken gold spread across her futon.

She’d spend days clearing it up but, for all her efforts, she'd still find strands and bunches of her hair scattered in corners or tucked in with her few belongings.

She'd started keeping her hair in pigtails all the time.

It wasn't as noticeable that way and it was much easier than trying to even out the length with scissors.

Every few months, someone would tear little holes in her kimono or write nasty words across the inside of the cloth and she’d spend hours outside scrubbing the fabric clean or pricking her fingers bloody trying to mend the holes before someone saw them and blamed her for them.

But she'd never been any good at fixing things, no one had ever bothered to teach her and what she could manage on her own just ended up ugly and sloppy and she never could figure out the trick to getting the kimono clean without pulling and ruining the fabric.

No matter how hard she tried, she'd end up punished for it nonetheless and the other girls would laugh behind their hands at her as she tidied the yard or scrubbed and polished the floors.

She’d wake up some mornings to her hand in cool water, her bedclothes and futon damp and reeking.

Eventually she figured out the trick to cleaning her futon at least.

But all that was fine.

If that was the price she had to pay for being the favorite, being Grandmother's heir, it was still a fair price to pay.

They were all just  _jealous,_ because no matter how hard they worked, they would never be what she was.

She was talented.

Special.

She was held to a higher standard.

She was expected to own her shortcomings.

Blaming others for her failures, her mistakes, was _beneath_ her.

"The weak," Grandmother had commented at dinner one evening, "have only themselves to blame."

And she was right.

Grandmother was _always_ right.

She'd spent the better part of that night sharpening the slats of a dozen sensu.

When she'd watched them try to perform without flinching the next day while the fans sliced into their hands and fingers it had taken every bit of willpower she had not to snicker aloud at all their ugly faces.

But it was hearing those nursing injured hands spitting quiet accusations at those who weren't after rehearsal ended that had really made all the effort worthwhile.

They hadn't even suspected her. 

Hadn't even glanced her way.

Dummies.

They were all so  _stupid_.

She put thorns in their socks, snuck snakes and bugs into their beds, switched out the sugar for salt in the lower dining hall.

She left them little clues that pointed the blame towards this girl or that.

The accusations and quiet, bitter arguments had been fun to watch.

They still sometimes cut her hair or put needles in her sandals, but that was fine.

It made it look less suspicious if she were being bullied as well.

It made it worth it.

Because she wasn't _weak_. 

Even if they made the mistake of thinking she was.

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Flames licked the air, leaping higher and higher as the roof cracked and collapsed in on itself, spilling sparks and broken tile across the yard.

She could still hear them screaming as she danced, stamping her feet and turning round and round, ignoring the pain in her weak knee, reveling in those fading cries of agony and despair, the sound of fists pounding frantically against charring wood.

She moved too fast, her movements more frantic and less graceful than was traditional.

Traditional.

Ha.

Grandmother wouldn't have approved.

But then Grandmother wasn't in the position to pass down edicts, to judge her worth.

Not anymore.

She gestured with her fan, flicking it out and back in, keeping time with the crackle of flames.

It was everything she'd hoped it would be.

The air was thick with smoke.

It made her lungs _burn_.

The screams were fading, protests and cries for help dissolving into the silent resignation of death.

It was _everything_ , she'd ever wanted.

She smiled and laughed and clapped her hands to the beat.

Ibuki grinned and accompanied her performance with a punk rock funeral dirge dedicated to all her life had been, maybe for all  _their_  lives had been.

She wasn't sure and she hadn't asked, because it didn't matter.

It was enough that she was there with her, accompaniment and audience all in one. 

Nothing matter beyond this moment.

This performance.

Their performance, happening on a hundred different stages all over the world.

Despair spilling like acid over everyone and everything, burning away all the stupid, unnecessary parts.

Somewhere in the distance there were sirens.

And in a thousand places both near and far, people were dying and killing and maiming and do any number of other awful things to each other in the name of despair as if it were a banner to rally behind, a battle cry echoing out across the whole of the world.

She danced and Ibuki screamed and the world burned.

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When she wasn’t dancing, wasn't training, she played by herself out back, poking sticks into ant piles, squishing their fat little bodies beneath her sandal, between her fingers.

She gave them names.

This one was Abe with the pudgy cheeks.

This one was Furuya, who always tripped over her own feet at least once each session.

That one was Hirose, who laughed like a starving hyena.c

And the biggest, plumpest one was always,  _always_  Mikami.

Mikami with the tidy pigtails.

Mikami who pulled her hair when no one was looking.

Mikami who put needles in her shoes.

Mikami who called her names under her breath whenever they were assigned to dance close to each other.

Mean Mikami.

Cruel Mikami.

Fat Cow Mikami.

Stupid Pig Vomit Bitch Mikami.

She pinched the ant until it was nothing but a smear of black across her fingertips.

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“This is for the best, Hiyoko,” her father had said, brushing her hair from her face. “Your grandmother will give you everything you need to succeed.”

“But I don’t  _want_ to go! I  _want_  to stay with you!”

“I know, I know, sweetheart, and I want to stay with you, but… this… it’s for the best. This is the way things have to be.”

“Bu-”

“What are you two  _doing_?” Her mother hissed, poking her head around the doorway. “She’ll be here any minute. If we keep her waiting, she might refuse to take her at all. Is that what you  _want_?” Her mother cast nervous glances towards the front door as if Grandmother might materialize out of nowhere like a vengeful ghost to curse them all for their ingratitude.

“Maybe I do. Would that really be so bad?”

“ _Yes!_  Are you out of your  _mind_? Hiyoko has been chosen to become the heir. Do you understand what an honor that is?”

Had her mother’s voice always been so shrill?

Her father’s so gentle?

Was it really how things had been?

Or did she just remember it that way?

“She’s only a  _child_ , Saionji.”

“A  _talented_  child. She has a  _gift_ , but that gift will be for nothing if her talents are not properly nurtured. Hiyoko, pick up your suitcase.”

“But  _Mama_ , it’s  _heavy_.”

“I’ll carry her bag,” her father volunteered quickly, his big hand dwarfing the tiny handle.

“You’ll do no such thing. She will want for nothing, she will be favored and revered, but if she is seen as weak, the others will use it to drag her down, to shame her, and she will be cast out in disgrace.”

“But  _Mama_ ….”

Hands closed over her shoulders, so tight it felt like they might crack beneath the tremendous pressure, that unforgiving grip.

Her mother’s face is a blur of pinched features, just a jumble of light and shadow.

“Save your tears, Hiyoko, you can not afford them. If you want to be great, you must step over everyone in your path, including your father and I. You will go to Grandmother, you will listen to everything she has to say, do everything she asks of you. You  _will_  prove yourself  _worthy_ of this honor.”

“But  _Mama_ ….”

“No.  _Stop it._  From this day on, you do not have a mother or a father. You are Grandmother’s child and Grandmother’s heir and that is all you will ever be. If you excel, you will want for nothing. If you fail, you will be the lowest of the low, you will be cast out without a penny or a friend to aid you on your way. But, succeed or fail, you will never see us again.”

She had thrown back her head and  _wailed_.

Great gasping, hiccuping sobs.

Her parents had argued, a mess of loud voices and pointed fingers she couldn’t see through her tears and harsh words she couldn’t hear over her own cries.

Then, quite suddenly, there had been a loud crack and then silence.

She’d stared at the wall, at the little shrine in their entryway, her vision still blurry with tears for what seemed like a very long time before she’d realized that her face  _hurt_.

“Wipe your tears,” her mother commanded, voice stern and cold. “Grandmother’s people are here to fetch you.”

Her father knelt in front of her, used a handkerchief to wipe at her face, urged her softly to blow her nose.

He didn’t look at her.

Not really.

He mostly looked over her shoulder, past her, into the distance somewhere.

As if she were already gone.

“You’ll be fine,” he’d murmured, a hand smoothing over her hair, tugging gently at one of the pigtails he’d put it in that morning. “Everything will be just fine.”

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She threw rocks at the ocean waves.

Big rocks, little rocks, any rocks she could find.

It wasn’t very satisfying.

She’d tried throwing rocks at store windows first, but they’d just bounced off.

One particularly large rock had bounced off and hit her in the knee.

That had been even _less_ satisfying.

Eventually, she’d started hauling crap from the supermarket down to the shore and begun pitching that out into the ocean.

The problem with that was that she could never throw any of it far enough that anything that floated didn’t eventually get swept back to the shore.

So, again, totally unsatisfying. 

Sometime during the second week, she’d started dragging stuff up onto the bridge and tossing it off from there. It was a lot of work and usually by the time she’d gotten to the top she’d been sweating and cursing and she’d kicked off her stupid sandals and just gone barefoot and her kimono was loose and falling off one shoulder… not that there was anyone around to see or care, but it still made her feel funny. Still, it was always worth the effort since it had been way more satisfying to shove things off from there, to watch them plummet down into the distant water, to watch them as they sank beneath the waves or bobbed out towards the horizon.

She’d sipped her juice and sat on the edge of bridge, legs dangling over the edge as the wind whipped through her kimono, pulling at the fabric as she watched one of those big, bright beach umbrellas float off into the distance, envious.

Stupid umbrella.

Maybe it sank when it got out of sight or maybe it just ceased to exist… or maybe the waves really did take it away to a better, noisier place.

She wasn't sure and she didn't care.

Once or twice she’d lost her balance and fallen off the bridge into the water.

It hadn't hurt.

She'd just black out and wake up in bed like nothing had happened at all.

The waves never carried her away.

On those days, when she went to check, there would be another bright umbrella in the supermarket to replace the one she’d sent off the bridge.

Or maybe it was the same umbrella.

She could never tell.

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There were lots of things she didn’t know.

And before… before that hadn’t mattered very much.

There’d been people to dress her so she’d never  _had_  to figure out how to put on the kimono herself.

There'd never been a reason to learn how to do it for herself.

What would have been the point in learning something like that when there’d always been someone around to do it for her?

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Before the island, there’d been people to bully into bringing her the sweets she liked.

There’d been people who'd ignored her.

There’d been people who'd hurt her.

There’d been people she’d hurt.

There’d been  _people_.

When she woke up on the island, on the beach, there’d been people to annoy her.

People to annoy.

People she'd liked.

People she'd hated.

When she woke up in that cabin, in that bed, after… there'd been  _nothing_.

No one and nothing and more nothing.

Empty buildings and deserted places and nobody at all to fill the spaces between.

There’d just been _stuff_.

Useless, stupid, ugly  _stuff_.

Big colorful umbrellas.

Empty fish tanks.

Weights.

Pinwheels.

Guitars.

Scarves.

Sunscreen.

Greasy crisps in brightly-colored packages.

A freezer full of all the gross flavors of ice cream.

Boxes of stale crackers.

Fireworks.

Melting chocolate, sticky and gooey and oozing out the sides of the packaging.

Binoculars.

Fancy beach chairs in bags.

Sunglasses.

Just  _stuff_.

So much stupid stuff and no one around to use any of it.

And it was  _lame_.

And it was so stupid, stinking  _boring_  that it made her want to  _puke_.

But she didn't miss them.

Didn't miss any of them.

They’d never been her friends to begin with.

They’d just been… there.

And, maybe, sometimes, that was enough.

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There were kids who played down by the river near Grandmother’s place.

She could see them through the fence and if she stood behind the tree they couldn’t see her at all.

Not that she cared if they did.

Not like she went there to watch them or anything.

They just happened to be there and she just happened to like that spot.

It was the same kids every year.

Laughing, running.

Common, stupid kids with their bug nets and their skinned knees.

Running around in their stupid shorts and t-shirts.

Growing taller and taller each year like a bunch of dumb weeds after a rainstorm.

She never watched them for long since, even during the summer, she had lessons to attend and performances to give.

She’d always been way too busy for all that stupid kid stuff.

Too busy for all those stupid kids.

There was an anthill near the trees and sometimes she pretended those ants were those kids and she’d squish them one by one.

They were different than her.

Different from the other kids who trained with her.

The ones who put needles in her shoes and sticky candy in her hair.

The kids at Grandmother’s place were jealous of her.

They envied her position, her talent, whatever.

The kids by the river didn’t even know she _existed_ , probably wouldn’t have cared even if they did know, because kids who played in the river probably didn’t know anything about dancing.

Not that she’d cared, because she _didn’t_.

They were all stupid.

Always kicking water at each other and laughing and trying to catch the frogs that lived down on the banks.

She’d tried catching a frog once.

It hadn’t gone well.

She’d ended up stepping weird on a rock and tripping over her kimono and falling on her butt in the swallow, muddy part of the river.

When she’d arrived back at Grandmother’s place, dripping wet and covered in muck, the servants had laughed behind their hands at her and Grandmother had made her stand outside naked and shivering until new clothes could be brought for her.

She’d had extra lessons that day and the day after and the day after that for a whole month.

Because if she had enough energy to cause trouble than she wasn’t working hard enough.

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Sometimes she imagined pushing her off the cliff outside the music venue.

Or at least she _thought_ she did.

It was kind of hard to be _completely_ sure.

She would see her standing out there, right at the edge, staring off into the distance.

Just _standing_ there.

Like… like she was _asking_ for it, _begging_ for it.

It had been the easiest thing in the world to walk up to her, to reach out and press her hands against her back.

And it was so, so,  _so_  satisfying to feel her body reel back instinctively against the touch of her hands, to fight against the weight even when it was already too late and she was pushing forward with all her might to shove her right over the edge.

She'd always lean forward to watch her flailing body plummet towards the choppy waters below.

Down.

Down.

_Down._

Watching her fall until she was made so tiny by distance that she hadn’t even been able to see her actually disappear beneath the ocean waves. She'd just stood there in the aftermath, staring down at the dark water waiting for Mikan to bob back up like a cork. 

But she never had.

Her hands had tingled as she'd wrapped her arms tight around her stomach and taken a few big steps back from the edge as if moving away might make it more real... or less.

Either way, by the time she turned away from the cliff's edge, she could always feel laughter bubbling up in her throat.

It had felt so  _good_.

Even if she was just imagining it.

And it wasn’t like she hadn't deserved it.

Oh, Mikan deserved it all right.

She had always deserved  _everything_  that happened to her.

The big, slow, sloppy dummy.

She was weak.

And she was ugly.

And she’d always just stood there and  _took it_.

Always apologizing and apologizing and  _apologizing_.

Because she  _knew_  it was her fault.

That it was what she  _deserved_.

Never lashing out no matter what anyone did to her, no matter what nasty names she called her or whether she tripped her or put gum in her hair or cut up all her notebooks or stole her supplies or switched the labels on her medications.

She _never_ got mad.

Never.

Never.

_Never._

She’d always just… stuttered out apology after apology.

Disgusting.

She was _disgusting_.

She never stood up for herself.

And she deserved everything she got.

All those stupid, stupid,  _stupid_  apologies.

It made her  _sick_.

 _She_  made her sick.

She always had.

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“Ah! S-sorry, I’m so sorry! I didn’t think anyone would be back here. Are you all right?”

She dashed her sleeves across her eyes, chest tight with mortification.

There wasn’t supposed to be anyone there.

She'd come there to be _alone_.

Why was there someone there?

This was….

She was….

“I’m _fine_ ,” she managed, even though her eyes were probably red and her cheeks were still damp and her feet were still bleeding. “Shut up. Leave me alone, you…”

She couldn’t think of an insult worth of the moment and she was already dissolving back into tears again, lip trembling, hands shaking too badly to pull out the other needles.

There wasn't supposed to be anyone back there.

The show was still going on and she'd found this nice secluded area in the wooded area behind the shrine and she was supposed to be... _stupid_.

It was all so _stupid_.

She just… she just needed to calm down.

She could do this if she just had a minute to herself.

“S-s-sorry, you just looked so…” The girl trailed off, her fingers clutching the hem of her filthy skirt so hard her knuckles were white. “I-I-I w-want to help. M-may I look at your feet?”

Her hair was dark and uneven, her clothes were dirty, but she was smiling.

It was a weird crooked smile, like a brightly-colored wagon with a busted wheel.

“G-get away from me,” she snarled, jerking her foot away from the girl’s grasping hands. “Pervert.”

The girl blinked at her, surprised, her eyes wide, as she reached out and took hold of her foot in a firm grasp and pulled it into her lap. “S-sorry, but I’m afraid I’m g-going to have to insist. I-If you leave those wounds untreated, you could be risking infection.”

She smelled funny.

Like medicine and old socks.

“Why do _you_ care? You don’t know me,” she mumbled, turning her gaze away.

It wasn’t like she’d asked for her help or anything, she just didn’t feel like arguing with her anymore.

“You n-need help. And I… I’ll do my very best to help you… even if it’s not…” she trailed off, pulling a small white box from her apron pocket and cracking it open one-handed with practiced ease.

Probably did this kind of stuff all the time.

Helping strangers for no good reason.

How _stupid_.

She was probably some kind of pervert.

_Gross._

**[** **ERROR_LOCK_VIOLATION (0x21)** **]  
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Sometimes she thought she saw someone standing in the distance.

Golden hair blowing in the ocean breeze.

But when she turned to look, they were already gone.

 **[ERROR_SHARING_VIOLATION (0x20)]  
** ….loading….

Her father came to visit her sometimes.

She hadn’t seen her parents since Grandmother had picked her up, couldn’t even really remember what they looked like anymore.

But she was sure she’d recognize him if she saw him.

Not that she’d seen anyone at all, she hadn’t, but she still knew he’d been there all the same.

He left her little bags of gummy candies tied to the fence down by the river.

He must have known she liked to go down there.

Must have been watching from somewhere and seen her sitting against the tree, known it was her favorite spot.

It was so like him to find a clever way around those stupid rules.

A way to let her know that he loved her.

That he was still thinking about her.

He wasn’t allowed to visit her, but this wasn’t quite visiting so it wasn’t like he was doing anything wrong.

And it made her feel so good, all warm and gooey like fresh baked cookies inside when she found one of those colorful bags tied to the post, tiny bells jangling in the wind to call her attention to them.

It didn’t matter what kind of day she’d had or how mean the other girls had been to her, seeing one of those bags always made all that crap just fade away. It made her feel special, even on days when training had been particularly hard and her legs ached and ached.

It wasn’t like it was every day or on any kind of set schedule, but that didn’t matter so much. She didn’t mind a few disappointing days in-between, because there would always be another bag eventually, another little reminder that he cared.

She wrote little thank you notes and kept a few pinned inside her obi so she could stuff them back in the bags and tie them back to the posts after she’d eaten all the candy inside. Nothing crazy specific, obviously, she wasn’t  _dumb_. She didn’t want to get him in trouble if someone from the house saw them, just brief words of gratitude that could be meant for anyone at all.

And those bags and the notes inside were always gone the next day and a few days or weeks later there’d be a new bag left in their place.

And she’d known her father loved her.

And that was good enough.

 **[** **ERROR_READ_FAULT (0x1E)** **]  
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Sometimes she stared at her reflection in shop windows, shower doors, and she was sure it was somebody else. 

Somebody taller.

Somebody with bigger boobs.

Some total stranger who just looked a little bit like her.

But by the time she realized it was weird, her reflection was just the same as it ever was and no matter how long she stared at it, it just stared back, until she wondered if she'd imagined the whole thing.

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“You really shouldn’t talk to her like that,” Mahiru sighed half-heartedly, not even bothering to glance up from her camera display as the door slammed shut in the distance.

She groaned, rolling her eyes at the token protest, “Oh, sure, right, like you actually  _care_.”

“Hm? What was that?” Mahiru murmured, still not glancing up from her camera.

“Nothing,” she replied, sullenly, scuffing one sandal against dirt. “Ugh. Whatever. If she didn’t _want_ me to be mean to her she’d stop showing her ugly face around me, wouldn’t she?”

“Uh-huh.”

She frowned, glancing back up to find that Mahiru was crouching down, refocusing her camera. Stupid camera. She probably hadn't heard a word she'd said.

_Dummy._

It was  _always_  like that these days.

Stupid camera.

Stupid Mahiru.

“Look, can we  _go_  now?”

“You can go if you want to, I’m not quite done.”

“It’s just a dead squirrel. I don’t get what’s so interesting about it.”

“Of course you don’t," Mahiru answered, voice flat and disinterested. "Don’t you have training to go do?”

Heat flared in her face and she twisted her fingers up in the ends of her sleeves, familiar anxiety dropping snakes in her belly, “Yeah, well, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come along…  take some pictures or something?”

“Sure,” Mahiru replied, dubiously, her focus already back on that gross, ant-covered squirrel she’d been taking pictures of for the better part of an hour. “In a little while. I’m need to finish up here first.”

There was no point in lingering, she knew that.

Just like she knew Mahiru wasn’t going to come to take pictures during her training session.

Old Mahiru might have, but new Mahiru… new Mahiru was like a total stranger.

A stranger who never smiled and barely looked at anyone unless it was through the lens of her stupid camera.

New Mahiru didn’t care about her, didn’t care about  _anything_.

New Mahiru  _sucked_.

“Whatever, fine, I’m going,” she grumbled, tromping off back to the main building with a disgusted sigh.

It wasn’t like she’d even really wanted her to come anyway.

She was better off on her own anyway.

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Sometimes, on the edge of sleep, she thought she heard that stupid bear laughing.

_Pupupupupu...._

But when she opened her eyes there was never anything there.

 **[ERROR_SHARING_VIOLATION (0x20)]  
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She watched Mikan run down the hall, clutching her books and trailing bandages.

Maybe she’d step on one and go crashing into a wall or something.

They’d be pretty funny.

And it’d serve her right for not looking out for herself in the first place.

_Stupid._

She was limping a little bit; it wasn’t super noticeable if you weren’t paying attention, but she definitely was.

If she were an antelope on the Serengeti surely some lion would have noticed and picked her off by now. Torn her to itty bitty bits and dragged her back home for lunch while the rest of the herd escaped.

“She'd probably thank it for paying attention to her or apologize for tasting bad or something,” she muttered flippantly to no one in particular as she hiked her bag up on her shoulder. 

Stupid, heavy books.

Why did they even need them? It wasn’t like the teachers ever taught them anything.

She'd only ever bothered to go to class in the first place because Mahiru had insisted they should. 

She wasn’t sure why she still bothered to go now when Mahiru didn’t care anymore and didn't even show up half the time.

Just habit probably.

It wasn’t like she needed to learn any of that stuff.

Most people probably never even used all that history and science crap after they got out of school anyway.

And she definitely didn't need to know any of that crap to dance.

Maybe she'd stop going.

She wondered if anyone would even notice or care if she did.

Probably not.

 **[** **ERROR_READ_FAULT (0x1E)** **]  
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It was broken.

_Broken._

_She_  was  _broken._

Every breathe was agony.

White noise in her ears and pain throbbing through her head, almost too much too feel.

Was she screaming?

She didn't think so.

Her knee was already swelling, purple and red and bulging grotesquely to one side.

She could hear the people gathered around her talking.

People talking and talking and  _talking_ , but she couldn’t hear what they were saying.

Someone was trying to grab her leg, to hold it still, like she was gonna try and make a run for it or something.

Run for it.

Ha.

She'd probably never run again.

Never dance again.

Every involuntary twitch of motion, every time that red-nailed hand pressed her leg into the ground, searing needles of pain lanced through her veins like threading through the eye of a needle.

It hurt.

It  _hurt_.

Everything  _hurt_.

Why was this happening?

Why?

_Why?_

Help.

It hurts.

Hands.

It  _hurts_.

There were hands all over her now.

Holding her still?

Picking her up?

She wasn't sure. 

Hands on her arms, her legs.

Someone was laughing.

Laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing.

Was it her?

Was she the one laughing?

Helping hands.

Pinching her flesh.

Holding her tight.

She slapped at those helpful hands, screamed, cursed, anything to just make it _stop._

Make it stop!

It hurts.

It  _hurts_.

Please make it stop.

Make it stop, make it  _stop, makeitstop makeitstop makeitstop stop stop stop stop stop stop stopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopstopst-_

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There was little specks of blood on her socks.

_Gross._

The girl before her was sobbing, clutching her shattered, bloody foot as she wailed pain and apologies like that was supposed to make it better.

Like that was supposed to make her stop.

"Aw, see, she's  _sorry,"_ Enoshima murmured, her voice slow and sinuous as a snake weaving through the tall grass. "Won't you forgive her now?"

Her knee ached, it always ached now.

No matter what she did, it  _ached_. 

And all that whining was giving her a monster headache.

She brought the hammer down again and with a juicy crunch the noise stopped and the room was silent once more.

  
[ **ERROR_ACCESS_DENIED (0x5)** **]**  
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She shoved her off the cliff again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Over and over and over, but even that had gotten lame after the first couple times.

She wanted to hear her  _scream_.

Hear her  _beg_.

Something.

_Anything._

But she never did.

And the quiet made her feel queasy.

It was too quiet.

Way too quiet.

She’d tried talking to herself, but it didn’t really help.

It just made her feel more pathetic.

Made her more and more keenly aware that the was no one to talk to and nothing to do.

Sometimes she made the long walk over to the second island to beat the stupid jukebox into submission, but it took forever to finally start working and when it did it only ever played songs she hated and commercial jingles.

Stupid bubblegum pop crap that got stuck in her head and she’d find herself humming days later.

Still it had been better than all the nothing.

Not a lot better, but still… better.

It was something at least.

Something in a whole wide world full of nothing.

Nothing to do and no one to do it with.

And then one day, as if to add insult to never-ending freaking injury, it had started freaking  _raining_.

A couple weeks of relentless freaking sunshine and then the clouds roll in and she barely had time to duck into the stupid hotel lobby before the rain came pouring down.

"Great," she grumbled, standing in the darkened lobby and glaring out into the night as thunder crashed and lightning lit the sky. "For a deserted hell-hole, you sure are awfully freaking dramatic. I'm not scared of you, stupid island."

  
[ **ERROR_PATH_BUSY (0x94)** **]**  
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“Hey! That’s mine!” She'd called, stomping across the grounds, kimono rucked up and thrown over her arm so it didn’t drag through the snow that had fallen the previous evening.

The man at the fence looked up, wide-eyed, hair shaggy and dark, chin and cheeks dark with stubble.

_Gross._

His face was vaguely familiar in that way that guy’s faces sometimes were. Mostly she thought one old guy looked pretty much the same as the next and the guy fiddling with the bag on the fence was no exception.

He offered her a smile.

Tentative.

_Creepy._

_Super. Freaking. Creepy._

“I knew you liked them,” he said, lifting the bag from the post and holding it out for her like an offering. “I kept all your notes. You were always so proper and polite.”

“Those… those weren’t for you,” she whispered or thought she did, she wasn’t sure if she actually managed to say it aloud, because it seemed like all the oxygen had been sucked right out of the air and she was left gapping at him like a goldfish pulled from its bowl.

“I… I saw on the website that you were back, that you had a performance tomorrow.”

Everything seemed blurry.

“… Took a chance…”

She couldn’t move.

“…Beautiful…”

When had he gotten so close?

He’d been on the other side of the fence and then he was right there in front of her, fingers not quite brushing against her face.

His breath stank like sake and sour milk.

A big hand closed over her shoulder and _squeezed_.

  
[ **ERROR_ACCESS_DENIED (0x5)** **]**  
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She woke screaming, damp with sweat, fingers curled into fists so tight that her nails cut into her palms.

Just a dream.

It had been just a dream.

Just another stupid dream.

That hadn't happened. 

It hadn't happened like that.

Stupid dreams.

Night after night.

Terrible things.

Weird things.

Gross things.

Things that never happened.

It wasn’t unusual anymore, she totally expected it now, but it still… sucked.

It sucked.

Everything  _sucked_.

She pulled her knees up beneath her chin and jerked the blankets up over her head.

The bed didn’t smell like him anymore, if it ever had at all, but it still felt safe.

Safe in a way no other place did.

Which was probably dumb.

It wasn’t like they’d been super close or anything.

It wasn't as if she'd even really liked him.

Mahiru had been way more fun.

He’d just… he’d just reminded her of her father a little.

They weren’t really even anything alike, not really, but they were… maybe kind of nice in the same ways.

And dumb in the same ways.

Ways she didn’t really understand or approve of.

They were suckers just waiting to get taken advantage of, probably, the way they tried to help people, the way they were nice even when they didn’t have to be.

She remembered her father paying for some lady’s groceries at the supermarket once.

Helping some random kid on the playground tie his laces.

Stupid things like that.

It was what she remembered the most about him.

His face… his face was kind of blurry whenever she tried to picture it. Sandy blond hair like hers and dark eyes and she thought he probably laughed a lot so he'd probably had those little wrinkles people got around their eyes and mouths from laughing and smiling too much.

He’d been nice and he’d loved her and sometimes- if she tried really hard- she could almost remember what his hugs had felt like.

Warm and just a little too tight, like he was trying to squeeze the last bit of toothpaste out of the tube.

He’d always bought her ice cream when they went to the park together and carried her home on his shoulders when she got tired.

And she’d always, always, always told him she was tired even if she wasn’t.

She’d liked the way things looked from way up high, liked winding her fingers in his hair to hold on, pretending she was using it to steer.

He’d given her a tiny potted cactus after her first performance.

It was one of the only things they’d let her take with her besides clothes and stuff when she’d moved to Grandmother’s house.

Hinata had never given her a cactus or hugged her or carried her on his shoulders or whatever, but he’d been nice to her.

Even when there was nothing in it for him.

Even when he didn’t have to be.

He’d even brought her gummies a few times too after… after Mahiru was gone.

It had tasted pretty good.

Even if was kind of stupid of him.

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There was blood on her kimono, blood soaking through her thick socks so they squished and squelched every time she took a step.

She didn't mind the mess.

Not really.

Ibuki would help her get cleaned up later... probably, maybe.

There was blood matted in his greying, sandy blond hair... what was left of it, splashed liberally across the the fine furnishings of their fine home.

He'd been so surprised to see her.

Ibuki's guitar lay in pieces, scattered across the floor, but the broken neck and it's tangled, dangling strings still hung limply from one hand.

"Feel better?" She'd asked, touching a bloodied hand briefly against Ibuki's prickly hair before letting it drop back to her side.

"Thought it was what you wanted Ibuki to do."

Maybe it had been.

Ibuki's breath was warm against her neck.

Was gonna fall asleep there?

"Dummy," she'd muttered, but there'd been no real emotion behind it.

Maybe later she'd be pissed off about it.

Probably not though.

She'd thought maybe she'd at least feel satisfied or something, but mostly... mostly she just felt... empty.

Was this what despair really was?

Not that gleeful feeling of triumph, but instead just... emptiness?

She let her head drop against Ibuki's shoulder.

They probably looked stupid, awkward, standing there with their heads on each other's shoulders, their arms dangling at their sides, but there wasn't anyone around to see... so it was probably fine.

They stood like that for a long time.

When she'd finally lifted her head up and leaned back against the wall at her back, Ibuki had let her go without protest.

Had stepped back and stared at her with dark, fathomless eyes.

Stupid gimmick lenses.

She should never have let her raid that stupid costume shop.

"Maybe we should go meet up with that Kamukura guy. It's not like I think it's a good plan or anything, I mean, it's stupid. They're stupid. Whatever. Just.... I don't know. I'm tired, I guess."

"Ibuki is too."

She sounded it.

She kind of looked it, but she was pretty sure the heavy shadows around her eyes were mostly make-up.

Probably.

It was hard to tell.

She glanced away, gaze flicking between the body on the floor and the shattered guitar pieces that surrounded it.

"Guess we might as well go together then."

They did everything else together pretty much.

Why not this too?

They weren't friends.

They weren't anything really.

Or maybe they were.

Something like that.

Not that it mattered.

It was just better than being alone.

 **[ERROR_MEMORY_HARDWARE (0x30B)]**  
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When she’d woken up in Hinata’s room that first day, she hadn’t known it was his.

All the cabins had looked pretty much the same except for the crap inside them and she’d never been in his before so all she’d really known for sure that first day was that she'd woken up in a cabin that wasn’t hers and whoever it belonged to had totally crap taste.

Seriously: who the heck would want to wake up to that stupid bear everyday?

Much less a couple _dozen_ of him?

So _lame_.

She hadn’t remember much of anything that first day.

Not about everybody getting sick or about that horse-poop bitch putting a knife to her throat or about Ibuki or any of it.

She'd hadn't even remembered about what had happened to Mahiru.

Looking back, she actually wasn’t sure what she’d remembered at all… only that it hadn’t been any of that, because she’d spent the whole day wandering through all those deserted places like a moron calling for Mahiru, for Ibuki, for Hinata, for Akane.

But nobody had answered.

She’d even tried calling for stupid Souda and all the rest.

She’d even tried calling for  _her_.

She’d looked everywhere for them; had shouted threats and cursed at them and demanded they come out and there’d still been nothing and nobody.

She’d even gone as far as to rig up traps so they’d get caught if they tried to go places she’d already searched.

But there’d been no one to trap and no one to be found no matter how long or how hard she looked.

Not then.

Not that first day.

At first, she’d thought it was just a practical joke.

A really bad, really mean, really _stupid_  practical joke.

As the day wore on, she’d kept expecting them to pop up out of nowhere.

Only they never did.

And the whole time she was looking for them, her throat had  _ached_.

It had ached and ached and ached no matter what she did or where she went, it  _ached_.

And she’d just thought….

She wasn’t sure  _what_  she’d thought, what excuse she’d made up in her head to keep herself from thinking about it too much or poking at it or even _looking_ at it in the windows of the supermarket or the shower glass or any of the other dozens of reflective surfaces she must have passed by that day.

She wasn’t sure how she’d missed the blood that stiffened her kimono.

Wasn’t even totally sure it had even been there that first day.

All she knew for certain was that that first day had passed in a blur of irritation and fear and night had come and she’d just kept looking, kept shouting for them until her throat hurt so bad she couldn’t bear to do it anymore.

She’d finally sat down on the beach, exhausted from all the shouting and crying and walking.

Eventually she’d fallen asleep leaning against one of the palm trees, hoping someone, anyone, would come and find her.

Come and apologize for making her worry, making her cry.

_Anyone._

That night she’d dreamed about pulling someone’s toenails off with a rusty pair of pliers while Ibuki sang about oysters and blood and hormones.

The next morning she’d woken up in that same cabin again, Hinata's cabin, tucked into his bed just as she’d been the first day, with all those stupid Monokuma figurines lined up so neatly on the shelves on the far side of the room _mocking her_.

She’d gotten up and smashed them all to pieces.

It hadn’t really made her feel any better.

Her throat had still hurt.

And somehow, between one step and the next, she’d remembered that Mahiru hadn't been able to answer her because Mahiru was  _dead_.

Remembered the way they’d all made fun of the memorial she’d built for her.

Remembered Kazuryuu kneeling, bleeding, apologizing.

Those awful days had all come rushing back all at once and she’d thrown back her head and wailed.

Eventually she must have climbed back into Hinata’s bed, because she’d spent most of that second day lying there sweating and sniveling with the blankets pulled up over her head.

She’d woken on the third day tucked into Hinata’s bed, just as she had every day before, and those stupid Monokuma figurines, had been all lined up on the shelves, neat as could be, as if the previous day had never happened.

And the worst part was, that she wasn't really totally, completely sure that it _had_.

She'd smashed them all again, stomped those broken pieces to powder with her sandaled feet.

That's when she had first noticed that there was blood all over her kimono.

And she'd remembered.

She'd  _remembered_.

Remembered clutching her kimono closed as she pushed open that stupid, heavy-ass door.

Remembered seeing her laying on the ground so silent and still that she'd been sure she was _dead_.

Remembered being scared.

Remembered wanting to just turn and run.

Turn and run and never come back, maybe get help, _maybe_ , but definitely get the hell out of there.

But… but she _hadn’t_.

Because _Mahiru_ wouldn’t have run.

 _Mahiru_ would have been _brave_.

Would have at least _tried_ to help.

“Mioda? Is that you, music dork? What are you doing here?"

It had been hard to breathe past the panic, the fear, swirling and expanding within her chest and she'd been pretty sure that if she stopped talking her throat would just close up and she'd pass out and hit her head and die.

She'd just kept talking and talking and talking and she didn't remember most of what she'd said. 

She remembered that momentary rush of relief when she'd watched her push herself up, slowly, painstakingly.

Remembered trying to hold her kimono closed while she clamored up on the stage to try to help her up.

Most of all, she remembered the exact moment when she’d seen the rope knotted around Ibuki’s neck.

Remembered the way the room had seemed to tilt and blur around her, the way she’d stumbled back and away as if getting further from her might make that rope disappear, might right the world again.

Because, seriously, who the crap would want to kill _Ibuki_?

Then there'd been that arm like a vise around her stomach and that familiar voice in her ear, whisper-soft like the wind blowing through the cracks of her composure, “I-I might be mistaken, but I believe you’re now regretting every cruel thing you have ever said to me.”

And she'd  _known_.

The second she’d felt that arm wrap around her waist, heard that voice in her ear, she’d known she was going to _die_.

There was a knife at her throat and she could feel the edge stinging against her skin.

Ibuki had stared past them, eyes had been wide and vacant, her face still flushed with fever.

She wasn’t sure she even knew where she was, what was happening.

What the hell kind of asshole killed someone like that?

_Bitch._

”I always knew there was something wrong with you,” she'd snarled, shoving the words out past the fear trying to strangle her once more.

Like hell she was gonna let that stupid, lamb-brained asshole see her beg.

She wasn’t gonna die like  _that_.

 _Mahiru_ wouldn’t have begged.

Ibuki probably  _couldn’t_  beg... probably hadn't even really understood what was happening to her.

“Did you?” Mikan's breath had smelled rotten, like she hadn't brushed her teeth in _days_.

_Gross._

The knife pressed harder against her skin, hard enough that for a second she was sure that was it and she'd found herself trying to jerk away from her, to break her hold, to do  _something, a_ _nything_. She'd squirmed and that stupid bitch had said something, but she had no idea what, only that whatever it had been had sent Ibuki stumbling away with a clumsy salute and a gravelly ‘yes ma’am’.

She knew it wouldn't do any good, but she'd tried to call after her anyway.

“Wh-wh-what the… What do you think you’re doing, Mioda? Don’t you realize what this total nutjob just tried to do to you? Ru-"

The knife had dug in harder than before and she could feel blood flowing down her neck, her shoulder, between her breasts, and her heart had been like a drumbeat in her head. Too fast and too loud.

And her body jerked almost of its own volition, shivering.

One last dance.

One last dance to the rhythm of dread, the melody of fear, a song of inevitable death, inevitable defeat.

 _I’m_  going to  _die_.

I’m going to  _die_.

I’m going to  _die_.

 _We’re_  going to  _die_.

And she’d just been… so  _mad_.

Stupid. Fucking. _Kimono_.

Stupid Kimono and stupid her for not just asking for _help_.

For never learning to do it up properly on her own.

Stupid Hinata and Kazuryuu for not… not _being there_ , not realizing, not  _whatever_.

Stupid Ibuki for catching the stupid lemming disease.

Stupid Sonia and her stupid advice and stupid her for taking it.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t  _fair_.

“I-It would p-probably be best if you kept q-quiet, don’t you think?”

She’d almost laughed at that, but it had been so hard to breathe around that sudden overwhelming  _rage_ , “Like it’s going to matter in the end. Who do you think you’re kidding? I’m not getting out of here alive.”

“T-that is t-true, I’m afraid, and, you’ll have to p-pardon me for pointing out the obvious, b-but t-there are far worse things I could do t-than j-just kill you, you know.”

“Here’s your bucket and duct tape, ma’am,” Ibuki had rasped, dropping her burden at their feet.

Her neck was so _red_ , chafed raw by that stupid freaking rope.

She didn’t even really look like Ibuki anymore.

Like that stupid bear and his stupid disease had already killed Ibuki long before stupid Mikan had ever thought about putting a rope around her neck.

“I always knew you were just the worst,” she snapped, because there’d been nothing else to say.

It wouldn't have mattered what she did, what she said.

She was always going to die there, one way or another.

But.

She still hadn't wanted her to get her way.

So, she'd fought back.

Wriggled like a worm on a hook.

She'd shoved and kicked and punched and squirmed and she could hear Mikan saying something, but there was nothing she could have said that mattered and then she'd felt the burn of the blade across her throat.

And still she  _tried_ , she'd kept moving, kicking, kept twisting in her grip even as she was choking, drowning, until everything got too heavy, too dark, too difficult.

Until there'd been nothing left.

And then she'd been laying in Hinata’s room again, in that warm bed, staring at all those stupid Monokuma figurines.

Again.

Right.

Dead.

She’d  _died_.

She’d died and Mahiru had died and that Fatty Togami had died and that stupid cook had died and Pekoyama had died and Kazuryuu had almost died and Ibuki was probably dead too.

And none of it was fair.

It just wasn’t  _fair_.

Had that bitch gotten to leave?

Had she gotten away with it?

No, no way.

The very idea was... stupid.

Hinata wouldn’t have let her.

And even if she'd managed to full him somehow, she still wouldn't have managed to pull one over on that crazy Komaeda... assuming she hadn't killed him too.

Whatever.

Someone had probably figured it out.

So that stupid, crazy cow was probably dead too.

She wished there'd been even the teeniest, tiniest bit of satisfaction in knowing that.

But there wasn't.

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** ….loading….

Every morning those stupid figurines were there to greet her the moment she opened her eyes.

And every morning she smashed them to bits or threw them in the ocean or buried them on the beach.

But no matter how many times she hid them or destroyed them, they  _always_ came back.

Every morning she’d be there again and _they’d_ be there again… just  _waiting_ for her.

Not a scratch on them.

So  _stupid_.

One day blended into the next and the only highlight of all those long, stupid weeks was that, every once in a while, she got to kill imaginary Mikan.

She’d pushed her off that cliff a bunch of times and drowned her in the ocean once or twice and, the last time she'd seen her, she’d bashed her ugly head in with Ibuki’s stupid guitar.

Not for any particular reason really, she’d just happened to have it on hand.

She’d started carrying the stupid thing around her with the idea that maybe she’d learn to play it or something.

She’d left Mikan’s body on the beach, her head split open like an overripe melon, blood and brains and dark hair spilled all over the shining sand.

_Gross._

She’d tossed the shattered, bloodstained remains of the guitar into the ocean.

It had been a dumb idea anyway.

It wasn't like she'd been able to play anything that sounded even halfway decent.

When she’d looked back, all traces that Mikan had been there were gone… just like always.

It wasn’t like she hadn't known she’d be back eventually- she always came back _eventually_ \- but it had still been annoying to have all her hard work undone so quickly.

It was frustrating.

And  _stupid_.

_So._

_Stupid._

And the worst thing about it after a while was that she couldn’t ever really anticipate when or where she’d show back up.

She’d just pop up out of freaking nowhere like a stupid, ugly jack-in-the-box every couple of days, wandering around the island like she owned the joint.

Like she'd had some right to be there, ruining her stupid, boring afterlife island with her presence.

And the worst thing about it was that she had never seemed to see her or hear her, no matter how much she screamed and cursed at her.

It was so  _dumb_.

Sometimes, just because killing her was kind of boring, she'd even followed her around for awhile, tried talking to her.

Just once or twice.

But _not_ because she'd wanted to, obviously, but because she'd just….

She’d never really liked being alone.

Not really.

But Mikan had never answered, no matter what she did.

She'd never even  _looked_  at her.

And she’d always really, really, really _hated_ being  _ignored_.

So, eventually, she'd just end up killing her again and getting on with her day, because if Mikan was dead than at least she didn’t have to watch her wander around the island ignoring her.

As she stomped up to the second floor of the hotel, she'd realized it had actually been kind of a long time since she'd last seen her.

Not that she'd been looking.

Just... it had been awhile.

So, maybe the guitar had finally been the thing that got the job done.

Still, she kind of doubted it.

Mikan was probably out there wandering around in the storm like the stupid cow she was.

Probably didn’t even have the good sense to get out of the stupid, freaking rain.

Well, screw her.

Let her turn into a giant prune.

There was no way she was going out in that stupid storm just so she could be ignored.

Still... waiting around for the storm to stop was boring.

B-O-R-I-N-G.

Of course, that was the whole stupid island in a nutshell.

At least she’d finally had the time to figure out how to tie her stupid freaking kimono herself.

Not that it really mattered.

And not that she even wanted to wear it since it was covered in blood that never came out no matter how hard she scrubbed at it.

Plus, the stupid freaking thing only ever reminded her that it was her own fault that she’d gotten stabbed in the throat by that stupid turd-faced jerk butt in the first place.

Not that she was likely to forget that with since the stupid cut never healed and even though she wrapped in a bunch of bandages every morning it still hurt every time she moved too fast or turned to look at things or breathed too deeply.

Still, most of the time she just tried not to think about it, any of it.

Focusing on how much everything on the island of the dead  _sucked_ was a whole lot easier than dwelling on her own mistakes.

_Whatever._

She’d pretty much already accepted that things were just going to be a big bag of crap-faced suck forever.

She sighed, flopping back on the floor of the restaurant and staring up at the ceiling fans whirling slowly overhead.

Outside the rain was still falling.

And, sometimes, the sky lit up with streaks of purple-white lightning, but mostly the sky was just dark and boring and barely worth looking at.

She’d built another shrine for Mahiru to replace the one someone had ruined.

She'd also gone ahead and made shrines for Ibuki and Hinata to go with it because they’d been all right and it wasn’t like she didn’t have the time.

She wasn't sure if Hinata was dead or not, but... he was a nice guy so she was pretty sure that would get him killed sooner or later.

The candles she’d lined each of shrines with burned merrily in the darkness, casting long shadows across the walls.

Shadows that flickered and danced whenever a strong breeze blew in.

She hadn’t made shrines for the others, but maybe she would eventually.

 _If_ she got bored enough.

It was still raining.

It seemed like it had been raining for a long time.

Was she out there somewhere?

Were they?

Would it still be raining when she woke up tomorrow?

She didn’t have any answers.

Still... she was pretty sure it couldn't rain forever.

 **[**   **ERROR_SHARING_VIOLATION (0x20)**   **]  
** ….loading…. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tra-la-la. Feel free to catch me on [tumblr](http://midnight-run-amok.tumblr.com/) where I will no doubt blather on far more extensively about this update. Or not. I don't know. Could go either way. Cheers! ^_^


	22. Conveniently Low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...the time had come to talk...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second update in as many days, FYI. Considerably shorter than the last.

**DAY THREE**  
**03:49:31 UTC**  
-continued-  
**+++**

_I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.”  
― Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis_

**+++**

_Run-_

****[** **ERROR_DELETE_PENDING (0x12F)** **]  
**** ….loading….

He ran.

He jogged across the beach.

Down the road.

Through abandoned buildings and empty fields.

Over bridges, around each island.

It never did much to clear his head, but it was better than nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

No-no-no-no-no-no-no-n-

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**....loading....

His head was a mess of strange, unwelcome images.

Pressing his foot down against the fragile length of a long, slender neck.

To smile as bones crackled and popped and broke beneath his tread, as onlookers screamed… cheered.

The sharp slap of a congratulatory hand against his shoulder.

What the  _shit_?

Shit.

_Shit._

Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-

 **[ERROR_EA_FILE_CORRUPT (0x114)]  
**....loading....

It had been an _accident_.

It  _had_ to have been an accident.

Only....

Only... could he really believe that?

He hadn't meant to push them so hard... hadn't realized he had or that they would....

He hadn't _known_.

Why hadn't he seen it coming? 

That was his job, wasn't it?

To see the hits coming?

To help them reach their full potential.

He'd just... he'd just been trying to _help_.

He... he should have seen it coming.

There had to have been signs.

Had to have been... something he could have done.

Why hadn't he....

He....

He hadn't....

Hadn't....

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-h-

 **[ERROR_EA_FILE_CORRUPT (0x114)]  
**....loading....

_Run-_

**[** **ERROR_DELETE_PENDING (0x12F)** **]  
** ….loading….

He knew it was a dream, had to be, because sometimes... sometimes he didn't have a head.

Or more like his body didn't. 

Sometimes he woke up and he was on the beach and he couldn't feel anything below his neck and just when he started to panic, he'd see his body run on by and he'd remember that it was all just a dream.

And if it was just a dream, he'd wake up soon enough.

Wake up to... something.

Someone.

He wasn't sure who.

Who'd be waiting for him.

Who he was.

Where.

He wasn't sure of a lot of things.

 **[ERROR_OUT_OF_STRUCTURES (0x54)]  
**....loading....

Sometimes... sometimes his head came off, just popped right off and sometimes he caught it, but more often it landed in the sand with a loud, wet plop.

Only how could see all that when it was his head lying there on the sand.

 **[ERROR_INVALID_ADDRESS (0x1E7)]  
**....loading....

Sometimes he was a robot, solid steel with a heart to match and everything felt distant and strange like moving through a damp, heavy fog.

And somewhere he could hear a clock tick-tick-ticking away to the end of the world.

 **[** **ERROR_HANDLE_EOF (0x26)** **]  
**....loading....

He rested his head against that cool stone, his heart still racing from running all the way there.

To the worn grey of the bench they used to sit on when the weather was nice and they were both doing well enough to walk themselves out there.

 _“Daisuke_ …" he murmured, lips brushing against the damp stone, salt on his lips. "I messed up.”

 **[** **ERROR_DELETE_PENDING (0x12F)** **]  
** ….loading….

Someone was yelling, screaming that he needed to get up, to work harder, to move faster.

_"Concentrate!"_

_"Keep moving!"_

_"You can do this!"_

_"C’mon!"_

_"Pick up the pace!"_

No.

That…

His voice.

_His._

He was screaming at someone, face warm with the beginnings of fury.

Why couldn't any of them do this?

It wasn't that damn hard.

His kids would have been able to do this course blindfolded.

Shit. 

These punks were supposed to be _talented_ , weren't they?

They were supposed to be _better_.

They had every advantage handed to them and the losers still didn't have _half_ the heart his kids had... had.

Didn't want to put in the _work_. 

Spoiled rotten by their natural talents.

_Shit._

Each step they took was more unsteady, more uncertain than the last.

He already knew how it was going to end even before they'd finally stepped too far forward and vanished in an explosion of dirt and mud, bloody chunks raining down across the wet field, as the sound of the blast rang in his ears.

Gleeful laughter filled the silence as he cracked his neck, sighing heavily.

He didn't have to look to know it was her.

She'd been sitting on the bleachers most of the day in a cheerleading uniform munching her way through a bowl of popcorn as he ran the kids through their paces.

Her laughter echoed across the field as he motioned for them to send out the next one.

Pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-

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** ….loading….  

There was a body swinging out into the open air, busted open like an overstuffed piñata, trailing entrails like gory streamers as it swayed gently in the wi-

 **[ERROR_EA_FILE_CORRUPT (0x114)]  
**....loading....

He woke on the beach again and again and again.

Or least he thought he did.

He'd dreamed of stepping in front of her again.

Of her shocked wide open expression.

He was meant to take the hits so they didn’t have to.

Wasn’t that how it was suppos-

 **[ERROR_MEMORY_HARDWARE (0x30B)]  
** ….loading….

Endless nightmares.

Endless dreams, fading and blending one into the next into the next into the next and he couldn't... he couldn't quite figure what was real.

Whether anything was.

Had he been at a school?

An island?

Who was he again?

Where?

What?

How?

His head was filled with bees.

 **[** **ERROR_DELETE_PENDING (0x12F)** **]  
** ….loading….

He _ran_.

Because that was the only time anything made sense.

If he was running his thoughts couldn’t catch him.

If he kept moving the nightmares could-

 **[ERROR_EA_FILE_CORRUPT (0x114)]  
**....loading....

He couldn't even take a shit in peace.

There was always... something.

Something happening around him every time he slowed down, every time he stopped to catch his breath.

Some scream or cry or babbling tangle of voices just out of sight, just out of reach, people he could never find, never reach.

Even the landscape kept changing around him.

Bridges crumbled.

Beaches filled with holes.

When he made the mistake of going into the beach house to shower he'd found it scattered with discarded clothing, the floor of shower room wet.

When he'd poked his head in the cabins, he'd found Hinata's room reeking of sex, the door hanging loose and broken on its hinges.

He found the amusement park splashed liberally with blood.

Sometimes the beach was littered with random crap from the supermarket.

Once he saw one of those big beach umbrellas just floating out across the water.

The diner lights flickered like they were trying to send a message to passing ships.

Once he’d passed the hotel and the whole damn thing had been on  _fire_ , the air thick with smoke and the stench of burning plastic.

 **[ERROR_MEMORY_HARDWARE (0x30B)]  
** ….loading….

Sometimes he saw them… even if he couldn’t always remember who they were.

Couldn't remember their names

Couldn't remember why they were important.

It was just... faded images and only for the briefest moments, but it was unmistakably... them.

Them.

There was some light-haired boy sitting on a bent palm tree staring out at the horizon.

A big kid with shaggy hair sitting in the restaurant working his way through a mountain of food.

Once he even thought he’d seen a girl push someone off a cliff.

He tried to call out to them, to demand their attention over and over again, but he could never get through.

His words could never reach them.

He could never reach them.

He wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-

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** ….loading….  

He  _ran_.

He kept running and he never stopped unless he had to.

Didn't stop until exhaustion sent him to his knees.

Sometimes he was sure he felt her dogging his heels like she had sometimes on his morning runs around the island, but he couldn’t look.

Didn’t want to look.

_Coward._

He ran faster, dug in and dashed across the sand until the ghost of her presence faded away as if it had never been there at a-

 **[ERROR_EA_FILE_CORRUPT (0x114)]  
**....loading....

Night had fallen when he'd collapsed on the sand, suddenly and inexplicably exhausted.

He woke with sand in his shorts to grey clouds overhead and the cool, gentle patter of rain on his face.

Huh.

Hu-hu-hu-hu-h-

 **[ERROR_EA_FILE_CORRUPT (0x114)]  
**....loading....

The sky above him was filled with green and black static.

There was someone sitting beside him.

Had they been there all along?

It didn't seem like it.

The hood cast their features in shadow, but he wasn't sure whether he would have recognized them even if it hadn't.

"Hey," he'd begun, hesitantly, voice rough with disuse. "What are you doing here?"

If they answered him, he wasn't there to hear it.

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**....loading....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tra-la-la. Feel free to catch me on [tumblr](http://midnight-run-amok.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading. ^_^


	23. All the Little Oysters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... the time had come to talk ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 23 & 24 & 25 are three sections of the same chapter divided simply to make them a bit easier to read for the folks who read on mobile since this chapter (eventually) ended up being incredibly long. That said, if the last chapter you read focused on Nekomaru than this is where you'll want to start. :)
> 
> Mind the headers and don't get too attached to the new/old formatting. (All these chapters are formatted the way they are for a reason. The same is true here. Not a big deal, I just want to manage expectations since this formatting is cropping up again and won't last long.)

**DAY THREE**  
**03:50:45 UTC** **  
**-continued-  
**+++**

_“The phrase “Rest in peace” seems incredibly self-serving. It basically means, “Stay in your grave. Don’t haunt me.””_  
\- Jenny Lawson, Furiously Happy: A Funny Book About Horrible Things

**+++**

“Geez, it’s really coming down, huh?”

Dark water sloshed around his legs, a weak protest that slowed his movements infinitesimally, a silent testament to the truth the fiend's words.

Still, he ignored the comment and thrust the shovel into the soggy earth once more, tapping it down with one booted foot.

His socks and pants had soaked through long ago and the weight only grew more uncomfortable with each passing moment, the seams chafing unevenly against the inside of his thighs with every move he made. Painful though it might be, he still found himself grateful for the minor irritation - a far cry from the constant, too familiar throb of discomfort in his chest and arms - in that it gave him something new to focus on beyond the typical aches that plagued him. A distraction to pull his attention  from the tenacious shade currently banging its cursed heels against the wall of the pit above him and chattering on about the weather as if it had nothing better to do with its precious time.

To ease the constant growling irritant of all those little flecks of mud and rock falling upon him as they were sheered off with the motion of those feet and cast down to land against his head and bared shoulders and neck, to ooze pitifully down his back and neck before the rain had a chance to wash them away.

“I mean… I kind of figured that… I don’t know. Shouldn’t the weather be nicer here? Or maybe rain just suits my mood? I mean it was always so hot here, wasn't it?”

That high tittering laugh had a strange nervous pitch to it.

It made it sound far too much like the real thing.

_ Foolish. _

It was dangerous to let such ideas traipse pass the frail boundaries of his mental shields.

To surrender even a moment’s consideration to such false comforts.

He was the reigning lord of this dismal hellscape and he could not allow what peace he managed to summon to be shattered once more by the persistent urgings of that foul shadow. That foolish creature that refused to recognize its place in the ancient hierarchy of the arcane, choosing instead to make a mockery of him by circumventing past the wards he'd painstakingly erected at the four corners of that scared space. All those symbols etched in blood and soil, carved deep and weighted by the elements, by the small sacrifices he'd made to assure himself of their validity.

It was his own misfortune that his strongest affinity with the elements had always been with the magnificent cold of ice. In retrospect, it was no surprise that the relentless heat had had an adverse impact upon his power, his ability to call upon the dark forces to aid him. The rain that had followed the fiend's arrival likely only served to further ruin what paltry protections he had been able to muster in his weakened state.

Truly the fiend was fortunate the weather had conspired against him or there was little doubt it would have been destroyed the moment it dared to step foot within his circle.

Cursed _weather_.

“I mean, I know they  _said_  there was gonna be a storm and everything, but I mean, c'mon, does it really have to rain everywhere? Seems like I should at least be able to escape it inside my own head, don't you think? It's just... it's a bit much, isn’t it?”

It might have been a horse of a different color had that cursed visage from his past at least come bearing a sacrifice worthy of his attention, but all it offered was a seemingly endless series of complaints to feed that bloated sense of anxiety and confusion in his gut.

Nothing it said made  _sense_.

Nothing it had  _ever_  said made sense.

Not even from those first moments in the darkness.

Foul, useless shade.

Still- if nothing else- he could at least agree that the sudden and unrelenting onslaught of rain was inconvenient or, at the very least, ill-timed.

It had been far easier to navigate the depths of his creations without the addition of such vast quantities of water. He couldn't help but wonder whether it was merely an unfortunate and inevitable inconvenience or some greater sign that he was on the right track, that his efforts would eventually bear fruit.

Either way, the pit continued to fill up around him, water sloshing cold and unpleasant around his calves as he hefted another shovel full of mud and filthy rainwater up and out of the hole.

His aim proved true and he couldn’t hold back a savage grin as the shade perched at the edge of the pit yelped and spluttered above him even as a goodly amount of the mud and water was flung back down upon him.

“Ah,  _c’mon_! _Gross!_ That’s just freaking  _rude_!" It squealed, a flurry of movement in the very corner of his eye line. "You're an _asshole_ , you know that? Either stop pretending you can’t  _hear me_  or stop  _throwing_ stuff at me. You can’t ignore me and be pissed at me at the same time it’s  _stupid_. So, stop being a jerk and just talk to me already!”

He would not offer it the satisfaction of a reply.

Still the temptation to look upon it, to speak with it, to glean what little information he might lingered.

Or perhaps it was simply a foolish longing, not for information as would be wisest path, but instead for simply the shallow satisfaction of speaking with another being even if it were a conversation that would leave him worse off for having chosen to partake.

He had fallen into that trap too many times before to do so again.

It was too easy to forget himself, to drop his hard-won defenses, to treat it as if it were the genuine article rather than a cruel shadow that would leave him the moment he grew too accustomed to its company.

If he were destined to spend eternity alone in such a prison, better to bear that sentence in silence than to give in to the allure of such brief respite only to find himself left wanting and confused in the end.

The first time had been a mistake made in ignorance of his situation; the second had been merely a momentary lapse in good judgement, a base and undesirable weakness.

He could not allow a third such misstep.

He had had weeks alone to build his resolve brick by brick. His mind was clear, safeguarded by a hundred well-crafted sigils that would protect his mind and body from that hardy shade’s clearly formidable powers of persuasion.

Even now the momentary urge to surrender had dulled, fading beneath the beat of rain against his bent head until it was easy to ignore.

He would persevere in his chosen tactic.

It would give up and leave eventually.

It's eventual absence was, after all, the one thing about it on which he could truly depend.

**  
****DAY ONE**  
**+++**

There was a moment in the darkness.

A moment when everything made sense.

When the entirety of his life was laid open before him like a stain spreading across the floor.

A moment when all was clear.

He was what he had always been.

Darkness.

Despair.

Nothing had changed.

There was no ending nor was there a new beginning.

Nothing had been made clean.

There was only the darkness.

She was not there.

He remained alone.

Shrouded in the suffocating warmth of that darkened womb.

Perhaps he slept for a time.

Or perhaps not.

Time had no meaning in a darkness so complete.

His head was stuffed with wood shavings and everything felt very distant and unimportant.

And then….

“Hey,” a sleepy voice sighed into the darkness as a hand groped aimlessly across his chest.

It was a familiar voice, to be sure, but one he could not tie to a name or a face.

_ Strange. _

Stranger still that the casual contact did not rouse the beginnings of panic or revulsion in his chest.

He was still water and that touch a leaf floating upon the surface of his world.

Trespassing fingers sauntered across his chest and there was a tension building within him with each touch.

His life had not been one filled with the casual touch of others. He was a cursed being, after all, destined to be lord of all he surveyed, a solitary figure standing atop the mountain. It was no surprise humans avoided him, it was only to be expected, after all his touch was… _toxic_. His continued survival a blight upon the very fabric of existence.  

The fingers traipsing across his chest collapsed into the broad expanse of a hand, pressing firm and brief against the center of his body before sweeping low, seeking and finding the hem of his shirt and slipping beneath to smooth across his vulnerable underbelly.

He could not silence the groan that invasive touch forced from his lips, could not still the arch of his traitorous body as it leapt to meet the unfamiliar warm of calloused fingertips as they smoothed across his flesh; as they chased the breath from his lungs and lit a smoldering fire in the icy depths of his being.

The hand went flat against his stomach with the force of a gentle slap before withdrawing quickly, tugging his shirt back down with one quick, jerky motion and smoothing across it as if doing so might erase the evidence of its passage. “Holy crap, you’re a  _dude_." 

The fire in his belly died a sudden private death, extinguished by the rush of ice in his veins, the familiar sting of such human rejection.

"Oh, damn, whew, sorry about that, I thought this was like a sexy dream and you were just a really flat-chested girl. Or maybe I didn't. Maybe I was just totally into it anyway. Oh man, _was I_?”

“Foolish mortal," he scoffed, sickened by the quaver in his voice and thankful that the darkness concealed the heat of mortification that flooded his his face. "You should thank the grace of whatever God has granted you his favor that my Devas were not here to tear the flesh from your offending hand.”

“Hey, wh- oh, holy crap, wait... _no way_. You're… oh no, nope, no way. I’m not… oh, _man_ … this is too messed up. You're  _dead_.”

He....

He was on a beach, the heat of the sun bearing down against his back, sweat thick and slick beneath his clothes, as he sketched sigils in the sand.

He could hear them coming, feel death riding him down, but still he would fight. He would fight till his last breath and he faced down that heard of charging beasts and that fiendish bear who rode upon them.

An exquisite agony burst forth from the center of his being as he was lifted, thrown into the air, as the world spun around him.

He was lying on the beach, the grit of damp sand rough beneath his cheek.

They were there, beautiful and untouched.

_ Safe. _

Their fur bright and their eyes glistening in the light of the setting sun.

The thunder of hooves fading all around them.

It was... a _good_ death.

And then he was in the darkness again.

“Man, I didn't even _like_ you. How can I be having sexy dreams about… oh man, what… what the  _hell_ , dude.”

Hands shoved at his chest carelessly and pain erupted through his body. It seemed impossible that such a paltry blow should be capable of rending him asunder, of splitting him open and battering the inside of his chest and yet it still sent a crashing wave of searing torment racing through his battle-damaged body like a fox speeding across an open field. The beginnings of a scream hissed through his teeth, high and unrestrained like the whistle of steam rising from a kettle. His body quaked uncontrollably as he forced his disobedient limbs to curl in around the pain as if such efforts could seal that misery within himself, lock it away deep inside where it could not escape, could not be seen or heard.

He might have laughed.

He might have _screamed_.

He was not sure.

Perhaps his conscious mind simply fled to graze in safer pastures.

Eventually he came back to himself to find the agony of those moments had faded to a dull ache, a pain that throbbed an unsteady rhythm within his chest, a slow, persistent beat in his head.

The fiend continued to speak- unmoved by his torment- his voice rattling like bones shaken in a can, even though his exhaustion he could hear the fear in his voice, in the frantic rasp of words spewing from his mouth, of breath blowing fast and warm between them, the fevered slap of a hand meeting skin again and again, as if the fiend were raining down blows upon his own flesh, as if he were trying to jar himself from some terrible dream. He could smell that fear rising from his skin to fill the air between them with a stench like cat piss marking dangerous ground, “-gonna turn all gross and _soggy_ and grab me and I can't do this. I can't... this is too much, just…  _no_.  _Heck_ no. I wasn't... I was supposed to wake _up_. So why don't you just wake up already, huh? What the crap is _wrong_ with me? I am not into this horror movie bullshit. This is why I never watched them, not even when Dad used to turn them on when I was a kid, I'd always just go hide out in my room, because I didn't want a bunch of half-repressed traumatized horror crap hanging around in my stupid head. Come on, just wake up. Wake _up_.”

“Foolish mortal, one can not simply opt out of the dark abyss,” he chuckled, his voice felt rough and probably sounded twice as bad, as if he’d swallowed a half a bag of gravel and then gargled with the rest. The worst of the pain was gone though he was uncertain whether it had truly faded or if he'd simply become used to it. Gingerly, he uncurled his body from into protective huddle, wincing into the darkness as each movement caused fresh anguish to spawn within his chest, as if the claws of unseen creatures were scrapping within, battering his organs, demanding freedom from the fleshy prison that was his chest cavity.

The presence beside him scrambled back and away, a flurry of baggy clothes and ruffled feathers, “ _You!_ You shut _up_! This nightmare _sucks_ and you _suck_ and your freaking hamsters suck too! They kept sneaking into my room and nibbling on my _hair_!”

“You are fortunate to have won their favor,” he replied choosing his words carefully as he continued to force his body to move through the heavy darkness. “If you had earned their ire you would have met a far more gruesome fate.”

He pressed a hand against the ground to leverage his weight and his fingers sunk into wet sand as a wave rolled up and crashed against him, spilling salt water against his lips, soaking through his clothing where he lay against the ground.

He opened stinging eyes to find himself staring at the horizon, at the orange splendor of the sun vanishing from the sky, swallowed by the vast, endless blue of ocean waves.

Another wave rolls up to meet him, water soaking his clothes, chilling his body as he pushes himself slowly, painstakingly to his hands and knees.

Had he been dreaming?

Was he dead or dying?

Did it matter?

His chest still ached fiercely.

When he was young, his mother had taken him to a house of worship. He was uncertain now what faith it had been devoted to, but he remembered the towering ceilings and the high windows fitted with colored glass that was layers so thick with dust and grime that what light filtered through seemed dim and dull compared to the blinding sunlit day outside.

She'd been a small woman, his mother, or perhaps the priest had been particularly tall and had simply made her seem so.

His other memories of her, few as they were to begin with, had been worn thin by time and he was uncertain how much of what he thought he knew was truth and how much the product of a mind grasping for a connection that had been lost long ago.

He remembered her shoes though.

Neat and black and with just enough heel to clack against the title as they'd strode across the church floor.

Her fingers had been tight around his wrist.

Tight enough to bruise.

Sometimes- during those infrequent moments when his mind lingered on thoughts of that day- he could still feel her thin fingers pressed into his wrist like a brand, making all he was obvious for all the world to see.

Cursed child.

Abandoned child.

_ Abomination. _

His mother had spoken with the priest in hushed tones, casting furtive looks in his direction without ever quite looking at him.

It had made him feel small and lost, a paper boat set adrift in a vast ocean he could not hope to understand.

He'd picked at a scab on his knee until it bled all over his fingertips.

He'd wiped the blood away against his skirt.

Her heels had seemed to clack twice as loud as she left him behind.

He hadn't watched her go.

  
**DAY TWO**  
**+++**

The chill water had felt sinfully good against his peeling, overheated flesh.

It was the only reason he could think of for why he had not heard the shower door open for there was no doubt that whatever manner of fiend it was that had crept up behind him, it was not one that had the power to pass through solid matter. 

He'd scrubbed bandaged hands across his face, grimacing at the feel of the soggy gauze rough against his tender, sunburned face, before turning about and startling back against the shower wall when he found that foul creature standing in his path wearing that familiar visage. He remembered all too well the feel of hands in the darkness, the relentless pain that had followed him into the waking world alongside the memory of that voice.

"What manner of fiend are you?" He snarled, raising his fists between them, it was poor protection to be sure, but better than any other his scattered consciousness might have summoned. "How dare you show yourself before me once again? I will cast you down into the bowels of hell for daring to make a mockery of me in this way."

"Whoa, look, what's your problem? I just... I heard the shower and I saw you were here so I thought I just... wanted to... needed to... see you."

It seemed as if his entire body had been set aflame by those words, by the fragile promise of them.

The earnest expression on its face.

As if he were truly... no.

He would not fall for such a petty trick.

He turned away slowly to retrieve the towel folded neatly in the corner.

It was always there, folded neatly in the corner, clean and pressed and simply waiting to be used regardless of where he'd last left it.

Always.

And yet when he reached for it, his hand groped through empty space.

No shelf.

No towel.

_ Nothing. _

He was left naked, defenseless before the beast at his door.

_ Curses. _

He heard the squeak of rubber against wet tile and whirled about, dropping into a crouch, his hands already flickering through the first signs of a barrier spell as the fiend wheeled away, stumbling backwards until his back hit the wall as if he'd been startled by his movements.

“Whoa, whoa! I’m not gonna hurt you!” It squealed, hands raised in the universal sign of surrender.

It was right to be wary.

The very thought that he could be felled by such a frail and cowardly fiend was preposterous.

In the many years he had lived, he had defeated far more sinister shades than the foul imitation that haunted his shower room.

What an utterly ridiculous notion.

As if one such as it could ever bring harm to Tanaka the Forbidden. He who had stood against the great beast Cerberus, he who had braved the treacherous waters of Ceto to rescue the terrible Leviathan from her monstrous grasp, he who had drawn first blood on Catoblepas. As if such a pale shade, so obviously weak of heart and fragile of body, could possibly stand against Tanaka the Forbidden and live to tell the tale if he chose not to be merciful.

Ignorant  _fool._

“Of course not,” he scoffed aloud, “I would destroy you. What is that you want of me then? If you lack the will to fight, why bother appearing before me at all? What is it that you seek?”

“I just… I mean, like…. I kind of just... I was _hoping_ you'd let me touch the scars on your neck.”

There was nothing elegant about the request and yet those words resonated within him, tolling like a bell in the depths of his soul, as if he had heard them before.

Such words were power.

Power enough to snare even the darkest and most forbidding of creatures, to overwhelm unprepared hearts, to grasp the reigns of his heart and steal the strength from the knees of even a being such as he.

It was a black, insidious magic that invoked another time, another life far from the earth on which they stood.

He could feel those words and the memory they carried with them echoing within him, giving rise to the desire to see it done, begging his body to comply, extinguishing the will to resist.

He could not begin to understand the power that cheap facade, that dismal shade cloaked in the guise of the familiar, that he could wield to make such a humble request - conveyed by such a clumsy, stumbling tongue - sound so sweet as to entice him to willingly offer that creature his back.

All for the unspoken promise of a chance to catch a glimpse a world before islands and death and the blood-soaked wreckage of a world consumed by despair.

Such was his own weakness that he submitted to it willingly. That he welcomed it.

The world sank and rose around him.

He was clothed and sitting in a metal box as they traveled across an endless sea.

The slosh of the ocean waves was loud against the hull of the ship, made distant only be the thickness of steel and glass.

He had never watched him sleep.

He found the sight strangely engrossing.

It had seemed as if the temptation to doze beside him must have reared its head more than once during their time together, but they had both always been quick enough to go their separate ways.

To preserve a degree of distance despite the fervor of their carnal relations.

Had it been so in the early days? 

Before their tentative partnership gave way to something more?

He was not certain.

Time and distance had bleached pale those early days, before death had taken too much and despair had eaten what remain. The years since had leached what color and emotion lingered within the fragile memories of those early days until all that was left were the smear of ashes across his fingertips.

Whatever they had been in the beginning, in the end there had been nothing more to bind them together than their devotion to her and the momentary satisfaction of physical gratification.

Once he had been something closer to human.

Something weak and fragile that had sat beside him in the darkness and united their blood as one.

Perhaps it was simply some surviving sliver of that cursed boy that kept his gaze riveted to his slumbering figure.

Or perhaps he had merely tired of watching the ocean waves.

It was far too late for soul searching.

Kazuichi slept with his mouth open, one arm tucked beneath his head and the other curled around his stomach, legs drawn in against his body as if he were chilled though the container that held them was unpleasantly warm.

He was also strangely pleased to discover that he snored.

It was not a loud or particularly obtrusive sound, but it was there all the same. Just a quiet grumble that filled the silence and resounded against the walls of their little prison. It was not unlike the purr of the majestic Nekomata, a fearsome beast who had slept beside him during the long weeks he'd spent at the forefront of the She-Cat's invasion of Shanghai.

“Hey,” he murmured, rousing from his doze to scrub roughly at his eyes with one grease-stained fist before pushing himself up onto his elbows to squint at his surroundings before turning his gaze back to him. "This a boat?"

It was disconcerting to see him looking back at him with eyes made unfamiliar by the lack of all those fanciful trappings that had once seemed to define him.

He had never seen him like that either.

Of course, he imagined he must look equally strange.

Both of them naked of all their many affectations.

The sheen of sweat across his forehead was thick enough that it glistened even in the dim light that streamed into their metal prison through that tiny window. He sighed heavily as he fell back against the bench, head impacting metal with a quiet thump, “I was just dreaming about you.”

“A nightmare? Should I have woken you?” His voice was rough with disuse. He'd seen little point in answering the queries of his captors and before that he'd spent little enough time outside the company of beasts so it had been some while since he'd had use for words.

“No, don’t wake me,” he murmured, a smile quirking his lips as his eyes fell closed once more. “This is a nice dream.”

Perhaps it seemed so.

Dreams were, after all, merely nightmares with their make-up on. Reality hidden beneath a layer of pleasant lies.

By the time he considered replying, he was snoring once more and there was little point.

It was just as well.

He isn’t certain what he would have said or if he even wished to say anything at all.

What point there would be to doing so so close to the end of their long journey.

Some doors were better left shut.

He turned his gaze back to the window, to the subtle churn of endless water, the distant blue of the sky beyond.

There was little point in dwelling on that which was past.

The deep blue of wavering water gave way to a closed door in an empty hall.

He'd been there for some time.

He rapped his knuckles against the door again, harder this time.

Hard enough that they ached in the aftermath.

He flexed them gingerly as he waited for some sign that his summons had been noted.

The door stayed resolutely closed.

He had had quite enough of waiting.

“Go,” he murmured, the note of command in his voice enough to send Jum-P scurrying down the length of his scarf to drop to the floor.

He did not worry that she would be unable to find her way.

After all, this was not the first time they had been forced to use such methods to rouse him from his self-imposed isolation.

The door clicked and he put a hand to it pressing it open without hesitation and stealing silently into the darkened room beyond.

When he shut the door behind him it sealed the dim light of the hall away leaving him to the pitch black darkness of the sealed room. A lesser being might have found such darkness disconcerting, might have been bothered by the sickly grind of mysterious machinery, would almost certainly have recoiled from the stench of unwashed skin and the reek of burnt oil.

He was not so weak.

He was Tanaka the Forbidden.

To one who had passed through the gates of hell and traversed the paths of the forgotten realms such challenges were barely worth mention.

“Just go _away_ , man,” he called, his voice was muffled by what was no doubt layers of blankets. Yet still somehow the whine in it came through clearly enough.

He had expected as much.

He was, after all, well used to conquering such paltry defenses.

“I will not,” he replied easily, moving carefully through the room, the toes of his boots gently nudging against unseen obstacles. A sea of mechanical debris and discarded tools, soiled clothes and crisp wrappers that crinkled as he urged them aside as he continued ever onward in his quest to reach the heart of this putrid darkness. “I waited the requested time and since you have not deigned to emerge as promised, I have come for you.”

“It's already been two days?”

“It has,” he answered, gravely.

“Oh,” the word was said quietly, as muffled as the rest.

He knew well enough from his own experiences that time had very little meaning during such dark moments of the soul. 

His knees found the edge of the low bed, knocking against the blanket-covered wood and he sank down upon the edge, dropping a hand against the snuffling unseen lump beside him.

Jum-P returned to him from where he had no doubt been surveying the situation, scaling his scarf once more to tuck the warmth of his tiny body against the back of his neck. He pulled a seed from the pouch at his hip and slipped it into Jum-P's waiting paws.

He had performed his duty most admirably.

Now it was to him to set the lure and reel in his prey.

“I require a new exercise wheel.”

“So?” Came the muffled reply, made sharp by derision. “Go buy one. Probably be better than anything I could make for you.”

“Hardly. I have searched near and far and have found that the weak, paltry offerings on display do not suit the needs of the Dark Devas of Destruction or their cursed offspring. I must have a wheel which will be able to consider the size and capabilities of each of these majestic creatures and tune itself to their particular needs automatically. These cheap imitations would break beneath the girth of the mighty Cham-P and I am concerned the smallest of their offspring would be crushed beneath the plastic spokes should they have the misfortune of seeking shelter there.”

“I know what you’re doing, you know. You’re not fooling anyone with this bullshit.”

“Oh? Would you have me use such inferior devices? Would you have me gamble their lives and growth on these poor shadows of what you might create?”

“They _failed_ me, Gundham. FAILED. I’m on freaking academic probation. They’re gonna kick me  _out_. They're gonna send me back home, because I  _suck_. Why the crap would you want someone like me to build you anything?”

He had known, of course.

Even if he had not confessed as much to him through a crack in his door days ago, it would have been impossible not to know thanks to the list that had been pinned to the main bulletin board for all to see.

The red ink that had called out failure had been glaringly obvious even from a distance. 

Mercifully, Kazuichi was likely unaware how public his humiliation had been made since he had hidden himself away in his room immediately after the presentations had taken place.

He envied She-Cat her ability to put others at ease with carefully crafted speech, but it was a skill he knew well enough that he would never possess.

His was not an existence meant to offer comfort to humans.

Not that he truly believed such cheap platitudes would have penetrated the gloom that surrounded the boy at his side even if he'd had the will or words to attempt to offer him such paltry solace.

“The freaking rocket just… I don’t know what _happened_. It was… everything should have been  _fine_. I tested it like a billion times. A _billion_ times!  It worked! I mean, you saw it work, right? Those tweaks I made to the air filtration and cooling systems totally compensated for the additional heat from the larger engine. Everything was working just like it was supposed to! I just- I don’t understand what went  _wrong_.”

The last word was a moan of protest, of frustration, a demand for fairness in a world where the odds were stacked against them all.

There was a rustle of cloth as the blankets were shoved back and he emerged from their depths to sit up beside him.

The gust of breath that blew across his face was as foul as that of the Nuckelavee and would likely have laid waste to a lesser being. Fortunately, he had trained long to withstand the stench of the excrement of even the most wretched of creatures.

“I must have messed something up, you know? Like I got one of the calculations wrong or I didn’t check everything the way I should have. Maybe there was like a loose screw or something that I should have tightened down. I mean he… he died because of me, because I messed up. I promised you he’d be safe, how can you even…”

_ Ah. _

He trailed off into something that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

Fingers wound tight against the material of his jacket, pulling it tight across the back of his neck. Jum-P squeaked a grumble of discontent and the grip was instantly released, a rasping series of apologies spoken quick as gunfire. “Ah, crap, sorry, sorry, that was my bad, I didn’t know that… sorry.”

“As if he could be harmed by one such as you,” he scoffed.

“That’s not-“

A grumble of discontent, frustration.

He understood well enough what those apologies were truly for.

After all, he had trained that Dola himself, raised him with his own hand when he found him abandoned in a storm drain by humans who cared not for the plight of such domesticated creatures. His nature had been too sweet and biddable to allow him to be trained as the Devas were, but he had still been a fantastic beast all the same. A magnificent creature of great intelligence and value, kind and affectionate and unique in all the world and he mourned his passing as he would mourn the passing of all such creatures.

Still, he would not mourn long.

Death was a part of life as inevitable and certain as the coming of the end days.

There was little point in lingering over a loss so sudden and unavoidable, at railing against Fate's terrible whims.

“It was a fine death,” he commented after a moment’s consideration, offering Jum-P an additional seed for his troubles. “All creatures are born alone and many die having known little affection in their short lives. His was a life lived at the beck and call of a cursed being that had little use for a creature of such a fond and gentle nature. In my keeping, he would have continued to grow fat and spoiled and would have likely been made a sacrifice to a greater beast. You gave him greater purpose and affection and for that I believe Spectacular Dark Beast of the Southern Isles would have been glad to have met his end at your hands. He enjoyed your time together and it was not in his nature to lay blame for such a strange turn of fickle fate. Do not dishonor his sacrifice by holding yourself to account for that which you could not anticipate.”

He loosed a tired laugh, like the squeal of a rusty gate banging in the wind, “Man, you really know what to say to make a guy feel better, huh?”

“I am well-versed in the thirty-nine blessed psalms used to ease the heart of ailing creatures,” he agreed, though - in truth - all of those required far more set up and preparation than he’d been willing to put forth in this effort. Also, he wasn’t certain how they would impact a human soul. They were as like to strip the skin from his poor body as sooth his aching soul, he imagined, so it was probably best that he did not chance it.

“Yeah, fine, alright. If you really want me to... I guess I could maybe put something together for you, but only because l don’t want Cham-P squishing the babies, because that’s really disgusting, okay? It'd have to be made out of a sturdier material than plastic, I guess. I’ve got some titanium which is light and definitely durable enough, but it’s tough to work with, you know? I’d have to get permission to order some specialized equipment for the shop.”

“If it is funds you require, I will be glad to provide them.”

Kazuichi snorted at the offer and he felt the tension of the past two days ease from his shoulders at the sound, “Shut up, I’m not gonna make you pay for stuff like that. You can reimburse me for actual materials, if you want, but I already have most of what I'll probably need laying around and I’ll just tell them I need the extra machinery for the circulation and filtration systems they're having me install in the main building. I mean they said I could finish it, even if I… even if I lose my place. Won’t even be a lie, I mean, not really, because I’m gonna have to build like a monster fan for that thing and a bunch of other stuff, so I'd probably need most of it for that anyway. Maybe you could help with some of the installation or something, huh? I mean, not like you have to or anything, just… I thought maybe it’d be… I don’t know. You don’t have to.”

“I would not be opposed to aiding you in your endeavors. We have struck similar deals before... though you really should be more cautious of entering into bargains with beings such as myself.”

“Huh? Oh, right, that whole curse thing, yeah, well, I mean, I think we’re already kinda past the point of no return on that right?”

“You have no sense of self-preservation.”

He laughed, high and nervous, “You think so? I mean, my Dad says so too, but, I mean, I’ve gotten by alright this far, haven't I?”

He had seen purple and green splotches pressed into his wrists and throat like paint splatter when he returned from holidays and breaks, laughed off as clumsiness during the infrequent moments when those around him took enough of an interest to inquire.

A cluster of old scars on his neck, little circles of pale, wilted flesh.

Every time he saw those marks, those scars, he recalled the scent of burnt flesh, charring in the inferno that had consumed the den in which he had lived his middling years.

“Sure,” he continued, sheets rustling in the darkness as he flopped back against the bed. “Yeah, I mean… it’s fine anyway. I like making stuff for you. It’s interesting, you know? Challenging, I guess. Plus... I like... I like having an excuse to have you hang out with me. So maybe we can just... make a pact or whatever. You get to use me however you want and you help me with my projects and stuff. I mean, you don't have to if you don't wanna, but it'd be good to always have something to keep my hands busy. Keep my head… you know.”

He did.

There was danger in stillness, in stagnation.

It was a danger he knew well.

A creeping, eldritch horror that seeped through the cracks in his defenses and saturated his mind, rendering all his careful preparations and protections useless.

“If that is your wish, so be it. The pact will be formed between us and shall be sealed in blood.”

“Blood? Seriously? You didn’t say anything about blood.”

“I did not believe it necessary to state the obvious. It is common knowledge that all true pacts are sealed in blood.”

“Well, I mean we didn't have to before, right?"

"You do wish this to be a more permanent arrangement, correct?"

"I guess so, but that’s so… ugh, no way, man. Like can’t we just- I don’t know- like spit on our hands and shake or something?”

“Spit is for the binding of less formal arrangements and I would still need to carve a sigil upon your weapon.”

“You wanna carve a what on my what? Oh man, tell me weapon isn’t how you say dick.”

“Of course not. Don't be ridiculous.”

“Oh, good, you had me worried for a second there. Like seriously worried. Don’t carve things on your dick, dude. That’s… just… no. Are you really serious about this blood thing?”

“Do you truly think I would jest…”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Fine, just… hang on a minute.”

There was a brief ruckus followed by the clatter of shifting metal and then he was back, hand groping across the sheets until he found his bandaged hand where it lay against the sheets, “Hey, maybe you could just unwind this a little then you'll be able to just wrap it back up when we’re done. I mean, you kind of already have enough bandages without adding another, right?"

"A fine idea," he replied, unpinning the bandage and carefully unwinding it from around his hand.

"Cool. Okay, so, how do I do this? I don’t have to like slice my whole hand open or anything, do I?”

“A mere pinprick will suffice. It’s mostly a symbolic gesture."

He snorted back a laugh, “If it’s just symbolic than why can’t we just use spit?”

“It’s symbolic of the act of sacrifice. There is absolutely nothing sacrificial about drooling on your hand.”

“Okay, fine, I get the point. Whatever. Alright, let’s just get this over with, okay?”

A hiss of pain erupted through the darkness and then damp fingers caught against the tender flesh of his newly revealed hand, “Shit. I think I messed that up and cut a little too deep. Crap, I really should have turned on the lights before we did this.”

“You will be fine. Besides there is power to be found in darkness,” he replied easily as the handle of a knife was pressed in against his palm.

“Yeah, I figured you’d say something like that. Either way, it’s too late now. Here, take it.”

“I would have you do it.”

“Are you crazy? I’m bleeding all over the place.”

“I trust your steady hand.”

“You’re so nuts,” he breathed, but there was joy in the tone that stole whatever sting the words might have otherwise carried. “Okay, I’m gonna do it. Do you, uh, need to say anything? I mean this is supposed to be like a ritual or something, right?”

“You shall aid me as I require and I shall provide you with my expertise in the construction of your air filtration system and any other projects that should be assigned you in the future. However! Know that I shall require this new wheel be completed as soon as possible. The latest litter grows plumper by the day and the survivors will need to begin their training soon.”

“Survivors? Oh c’mon, don’t let her eat them again. They’re just  _babies_.”

“We could no more stop her from managing her litter as she sees fit than we could coax the moon from the sky,” he answered, fingers of his free hand finding and settling against the stiff tangle of unseen hair, unmoved by the soft mewl of protest his touch pulled from his throat.

“Ugh, it’s so  _gross_ ,” he grumbled, though it was unclear whether he referred to the unfortunate unwashed state of his hair or the inevitable demise of the weakest of the litter.

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged though he knew the motion would go unseen and unremarked.

“Okay, fine, just let me… I’m gonna turn on my phone, okay? I need to be able to see you if I’m going to be the one doing this.”

The light was dim, the screen set for night, but its eerie glow was more than enough to illuminate their hands, to make visible the dark of spilled blood spread like ink stains across their fingertips.

He looked worse than he’d imagined he might. His eyes seemed very dark and his skin very pale within the hallowed darkness that surrounded them, his hair was ragged and sticking up at strange angles where his free hand was still caught against it. A smile quirked his lips into a parody of a smile, it was weak but likely all the more genuine for it. “Wow, this is somehow weirder when I can see you. You sure you want me to do it?”

“Yes,” he replied, his voice firm even as his belly quivered with anticipation, an eager pup begging a treat.

“Cool,” he breathed, licking his lips as he set the phone aside and picked up the bloodstained knife from the equally bloody sheets.

His gaze was focused.

He looked excited as he set the tip of the knife against his fingers, “Okay… ready?”

“Do your worst.”

A flash of teeth and then the knife dug in against the flesh of his forefinger, pressing down just hard enough to puncture the skin as it slipped seamlessly across his fingertip, blood welling up in its wake.

It drew a sigh from his lips and he shuddered, eyes drifting shut as a thread of satisfaction wove through his veins.

Sacrifice always felt like a release, especially when it came at the hands of another.

“Okay?” Kazuichi murmured, his voice rougher, lower than it had been, as he turned his hand over, slid their fingers together until blood smeared thick across them.

He sounded as if he already knew the answer.

After he left that room and returned to his own, he hadn't been able to help wondering how he must have looked to him in that moment, what secrets had been laid bare in his expression during those vulnerable moments.

But as he'd sat upon the edge of that bed, in that darkened room, he'd merely nodded dumbly, allowed the motion to convey the words that seemed momentarily lodged within in his throat.

“Okay, cool, so that’s it?”

“Yes, that was all that was required to make binding our arrangement.”

“Cool, okay, so, um, I’ve gotta, uh, go shower before I get started on the plans,” he stood quickly, almost dashing towards the bathroom, leaving his phone behind on the bed. He hesitated at the threshold, his fingers catching against the frame though he didn't quite turn back around. “Uh, you can, um, stay if you want….”

He trailed off as if he weren’t certain what else to say.

It was just as well, he had no intention of overstaying his welcome.

“I should return and see the the well-being of the creatures in my care. The hour of feeding is almost upon us.”

Plus there were certain inconveniences that should be dealt with exclusively within the cool, soothing darkness of his own space.

“Yeah, of course, I’ll, um, see you later.”

“Yes," he said, though as his reply was made to the bathroom door clicking shut between them, he could not be certain that he’d been heard.

**  
****DAY TWO**  
-continued- **  
****+++**

Caught up and bound by that most subtle of curses, he had turned and bared his scars for its perusal.

It was not the first time.

He knew that.

Could feel the touch of similar hands imprinted beneath his skin.

He had done this before.

_They_ had done this before.

Not in a shower with the damp slip of shower tile beneath his feet, but on a hot rooftop in the middle of summer, the sticky black of tar giving subtly beneath his booted feet, his skin slick with the lukewarm of sweat rather than the chill of shower water.

Still the familiarity of the moment was so intense it overwhelmed him, cast a curse upon him that rendered him dizzy, afflicted with a strange, queazy sort of sickness in his gut.

Those _words_.

That careful _touch_ , tracing the darkened ridges of those aging scars where the skin was most tender with such reverence... as if each ridge were the finest silk strung across the delicate webs of Tsuchigumo. It drew along the length of each of those long trailing, twisting scars in turn, fingertips delving into the smallest divots and rising over and around each curve and plain.

Just that would have been challenge enough to bear, but it was made all the worse by the soft noises of appreciation and interest that whispered between them as the pressure of that touch grew heavier, became greedy and devout as it dug in against the thickest of those scars as if it might be able to pull the puckered flesh apart and examine it from the inside out.

Good.

It felt _good_.

The world was a cruel machine and they but cogs upon their own lonely wheels turning endlessly within it, destined to meet and part again and again, to scrap their ragged edges against one another until they were worn away to nothing.

The taste of fresh blood filled his mouth as he dug his teeth mercilessly against his bottom lip to keep from offering that shade even the faintest note of gratification as the fire within him rose, as it flared hot, driving pleasure through his veins to swell to heat the blood within his cold, untouched flesh. His hands fell to brace his weight against the damp of shower tile, eyes held wide as that touch spread warmth like a curse through his veins, drew tension through his muscles, carved sigils into his _bones_.

There were cracks in the tiles.

A dark series of insidious lines branching out in all directions with no clear origin.

His hands spread across those cracks as if they might seal away whatever horrors lay within.

Water dripped, falling from the faucet head above in a slow, irregular rhythm against his bowed head, sending thin trails of water trickling down his neck to spill over the fingers sweeping across those scars, skidding out to brush clumsily across the unblemished skin between.

He could almost remember what those fingers had felt like curling against his back, scratching new marks over old.

The way that voice would sound as it drew out his name in long syllables, like a hiss.

As it asked question after question.

As it  _begged._

His voice wavered as he spoke, eyes held painfully wide as if that might help battle the temptation to submit to that ghostly familiarity, to those strange remnants of a life he did not truly know and almost certainly did not want.

“Do not think you can tempt me with such fiendish intimacies, I have trained six lifetimes to withstand the lustful intentions of incubi as I traversed each level of hell in search of those magnificent creatures of darkness that had summoned the Forbidden to give them aid.”

The touch stilled at his words, wavered where it had settled near the base of his spine, as if his treacherous opponent had not expected him to speak or had forgotten he was capable, "You are such a _dork_."

When it continued once more upon its journey, it was tentative, slow, trembling and uncertain… as if he would truly be fooled by the appearance of such hesitance. "But I remember this,” the shade murmured, voice as rough as the scrap of its fingertips. “We used to… you and me… we…."

It was not  _him_.

It was not what it pretended to be.

He knew that.

He was  _certain_.

Yet its words, its touch, still seared through his meager defenses to summon long gone days, to call those distant memories to the surface, entice them to tear their way free of whatever prison held them to claw their way to the surface to overwhelm his conscious mind and drag him down.

It was blisteringly hot on the roof of the academy. Far more so than he’d anticipated when he’d agreed to assist him in his mechanical endeavors. It wasn’t as if he were not well used to such conditions, after all many levels of hell were far hotter than the mortal realm could ever aspire to be, however, he had not prepared the proper equipment or cast the necessary spells to mitigate such conditions.

When the mechanic had shrugged free of his protective suit, leaving it to hang loose around his waist and shucked his shirt to use to wipe grease from his hands it had seemed only natural that he too should follow suit.

He had, after all, already set aside his scarf at his request because of his absurd concern that it might get caught in the mechanisms he was repairing.

Perhaps it was the heat of the day.

Or the strange comfort of the mechanic's endless babble.

Either way, he'd given very little consideration to the consequence of shedding his coat and shirt. While he imagined that less clothing would do precious little to decrease the heat of the day or its effect on him, he found he welcomed the opportunity to lose the discomfort of sweat-soaked cloth for the relative relief provided by open air.

“Wow, are those… are those  _burns_?”

Clearly it had been a grave miscalculation to suppose that one such as he - with his eye for detail and inquisitive mind - would not notice that which his layers of cloth protection typically kept well-concealed from the prying eyes of mortals.

He stilled, shirt still clutched in his hands, breath catching in his throat at the sudden question, the foolishly unexpected scrutiny.

“Yes,” he answered, brief and to the point, his throat clenched around the urge to relay the tale behind those scars.

It was a tale he had told many times before to all who had seen and dared to inquire as to their cause.

To the men who had come asking as he lay in the hospital recovering from the battle.

To those wincing few who had caught glimpses of it in baths or locker rooms.

He was quite certain he told it well, that he did justice to the majestic horror of that eldritch horror he had battled for the life of that magnificent creature, the first and most beautiful Deva of Creation - the same deadly creature that had eventually birthed his splendid Devas of Destruction - who he had cared for with his own hands and nursed back to health as they both recovered from the wounds that great battle had left upon them. 

It was not a tale of regret or loss, but one of triumph and sacrifice.

He was not certain why the tale had stuck in his throat.

“ _Cool_ ,” he had murmured, in that same, odd breathy tone typically reserved for fawning over machine parts and rocket ship designs. Almost reverent. Eager and breathless and fascinated. “So cool.  _Dude. Dude,_ why didn't you _tell_ me you had awesome scars? They’re so… oh, _man_ … can I touch them?”

Anything he might have said, any answer he might have given had died instead an ignoble death against the back of his throat as by the time he opened his mouth to utter them, the fool had already dared to breach his barriers to run his fingers across the sensitive skin that edged the scars at the back of his neck.

He stood frozen in place, fighting the urge to shut his eyes. He had the strangest inkling that that rough unfamiliar touch might be enough to bring him to his knees without sight to distract his mind from the sensation.

What might it be like to wield such power over another?

He might never know.

The pressure of his fingertips lingered on the uncertain boundary between pain and pleasure, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, merely intense and strange.

It made his heart race and his breath quicken and his stomach swoop.

He stood so close behind him that he could feel the damp heat of sun-warmed flesh radiating from him, a furnace that seemed to burn hotter than the darkest pits of hell itself.

He should never have agreed to accompany him here so ill-prepared.

It was utterly unlike him.

What was it about this singular human that put him so far off his guard?

“Dude, this is so, so… _wow_ …”

What manner of creature was he truly?

What foul magic had he used to make him shed his armor with so little regard for the inherent dangers of doing so?

The soft, cursed body hidden beneath his well-warded trappings had never been something he wished to yield to the touch of another.

And yet he stood there- vibrating with tension- as those calloused fragile human hands explored that map of battles won and lost etched across his flesh.

He did not crave pity, had never desired whatever sympathy such marks might engender in those who could not understand the pride of a warrior writ large across his flesh, those who would shy away from his pain, would avert their eyes from his wounds.

Was it perhaps not dark sorcery after all, but only the lingering knowledge of the scars he'd seen as he hunched over his plans and sketches, those subtle discolorations and faded marks that told better than words the tale of a life lived beneath the yolk of a great and vile human beast.

Perhaps it was that as much as his skill that had brought him to speak with him that first day.

That inspired this strange feeling of kinship within him, that dim and faltering hope that had kindled to flame during that first meaningful exchange. The promise of something....

There was startled hiss at his back, that froze his body in place, sent his stomach plummeting with the sudden, inevitable crash of disappointment.

It would not be the first time he had misread a human face, misinterpreted or inscribed too much of what he desired into the flesh of those selfish, simple creatures that so often disappointed his already limited expectations.

It was one of many reasons he preferred the company of the great beasts of field and wood and stream to the casual cruelty of those who proclaimed themselves their betters.

Regret tore through him as he crumpled the cloth in his fists.

_Fool._

“Oh, wow, these are… _wow_ ," his touch is a rough trespass that sweeps over his skin, quick and eager and almost careless, the excited rush of breath against his skin is warm as he leans in rather than pulling away. "This one is the _best_. Do they hurt? Oh man, look at this _one_ , it’s… holy _crap_ , they're all so freaking  _cool._ If I had scars like yours I’d never wear a shirt again.”

The rush of relief that statement brought with it had brought laughter bubbling up to issue forth from his lips, thick and low with the weight of the emotion it carried with it.

“Hey! What are you laughing about? It’s not that weird, right? Oh, man,  _is it_? It  _is_ , isn’t it?  _Crap._  Well, I mean, they’re just… I don’t know… really manly, I guess? Girls! Girls would probably be all over you with scars like these.”

His skin felt hot and the urge to hide his face beneath the cover of his discarded scarf was nearly overwhelming. He stared intently at the ground instead, grateful that he was at his back where he could not see the proof of embarrassment flushed bright against the dark of his skin, “Most would find them discomfiting.”

“Really? _Why_? They’re  _awesome_. Can I touch them? Oh… crap, I already did, didn’t I? Like a _lot_. Sorry, I should have asked. Or, I guess I did ask, but I definitely should have like waited for permission before I did. Sorry, that was totally my bad. I just get excited sometimes, you know? Should you even… oh… oh, _crap_! Should they be out in the sun like this? These ones are all burn scars, right? Doesn’t that hurt? When they're out in the sun? Oh man, it probably _does_ , doesn’t it? I shouldn’t have… oh, oh, _crap_! Here, um, let me, ah, crap, crap! Where is your  _shirt_?”

He watched wide-eyed and dumbstruck as the mechanic flailed around the roof, tossing tools and tarps aside in his sudden, haphazard search. Yanking his cap down further over the pink of his hair as he looked about frantically, “ _Crap,_  I can’t find it! Oh, man, this is bad, isn’t it?" He snatched his own discarded, oil-stained shirt from the ground and jogged back over to him. "Here just… just take _mine_ , I mean, it’s kinda dirty but it’s better than… oh, huh. Right, well, there it is… uh… mystery solved, I guess.”

He blinked down at the filthy shirt the mechanic had shoved into his hands.

Hands that were still wound up in his own recently discarded shirt.

_Ridiculous._

His face burned, head and sides aching as the relieved chuckles of moments before turned into full-blown laughter.

His cheeks had ached as he’d glanced back up to find the mechanic's skin was stained as pink as his hair, his mouth left empty and gapping as the seemingly endless flow of words died into mortified silence before bursting into a sudden nervous trill of laughter that rattled across the roof like coins falling across a barren floor.

It had felt like….

Like what had begun in a carefully negotiated exchange had suddenly burst forth into something beautiful and dangerous.

He could hear its voice was strange, garbled, like it was underwater, like they both were and each word was more difficult to parse than the last, “We… used… to…”

It was difficult to focus with that touch skidding across his back, with that voice becoming softer and more hesitant with each passing moment.

To pull himself from the gooey tendrils of memory.

From that white sharp-toothed smile.

And then the world righted itself once more, the world speeding up around him and he was standing with his hands against those cool tiles once more, cracks spreading out beneath his hands like a disease running rampant through an infected colony and that fiend’s breath at his throat.

“You smell really good,” the devious imposter whispered, words a warm rush against his shower damp skin. “Is that creepy? It _is_ , isn’t it? I don’t… I don’t really mean it in a creepy way, it’s just… a thing... that I noticed. Sometimes you’d sit near me at the restaurant or we’d be standing together with the rest of the group and I’d just… I noticed. I mean, it was only because I thought it was weird, you know? You always had those hamsters all over you and you were always messing around with all those animals over on the farm, but you always smelled so _good_. Like… I don’t know, campfires or waterfalls or whatever. It was just… I mean, I know I always kind of stink. I mean, it's not like I don't _shower_ , I totally do, it's just... I smell like grease and motor oil and, I mean, I know I’ve got some kind of crazy BO so I just thought… I…  _crap_. This is super _gay_ , isn’t it?”

He sounded ashamed.

The way he said the word.

Softer than the rest... as if it were a secret.

_Gay._

It was such a human concept to be ashamed of what one desired.

He had never....

The talented humans of Hope’s Peak had a tendency to converge at the central tables in the cafeteria, to group together like pack animals seeking the approval of those who dominated the rest. 

He had always been a solitary creature and that hadn't changed when he'd been invited to Hope's Peak. He enjoyed the time he spent with the She-Cat when they found quiet corners in which to discuss the arcane or the training of the Devas, but he disliked associating with her too frequently outside of the confines of the classroom. Hers was an existence that seemed destined for sunlight, that attracted others like ants scenting a picnic's bounty. Being around such crowds made him anxious so he kept his distance, skirting around the fringes during his infrequent journeys to the kitchen to forage for food for himself and his charges. Most often he chose to take his meals, such as they were, within the confines of his room or out in the few secluded areas on the grounds that allowed him the solitude he craved.

It was how he had known that the mechanic tended to eat his meals in the garden and that he might be able to find him there when he came from his latest meeting with that cursed old man, his heart aching and rage simmering in his soul. He'd stopped in the kitchen only to retrieve enough food to keep the gnawing hunger at bay while he sought him out in the hopes that he might be able to aid him where more official channels would not.

They did not know each other, not truly, had not spoken in the classrooms and halls of Hope's Peak, but he was a distinctive presence and he had heard of his talent, seen it in the brief displays in those inventions he'd occasionally brought with him to tinker with during class. 

He found him in the corner of the part of the garden furthest from the main building, seated on the ground and half-hidden behind a strangely ornate marble bench.

Some graduate of the school must have been a sculptor, he could think of no other reason besides foolish pride that anyone would allow such a grotesque monstrosity to remain on display.

There was an open can of soda and a half-eaten sandwich laid out atop a torn brown paper bag on the bench's uneven top. The mechanic himself was sprawled on the ground beside it with a vast array of metal pieces spread out across a towel, a large black bag filled with tools beside him.

He settled on the unused portion of the bench and pulled an apple from his bag with every intention of simply waiting until the mechanic had finished his task before speaking with him, but from the moment he settled down upon the bench's rough surface the mechanic tensed like a rabbit in the field scenting a predator on the wind.

His movements became quick and abrupt and his gaze kept darting to him and then away again and again, as if he were expecting something.

He frowned at the display before slipping four seeds from his pocket and offering him to the Devas nestled in his scarf. 

“Okay, look,” the mechanic said finally, tossing his tool back in the bag and frowning up at him, tugging at his hat. “Do you want something or what? Because you’re kind of freaking me out.”

_Ah_... of course it was that.

He nodded sagely, well-used to such reactions. It came as no surprise that the mechanic would be different than all the rest, one human was much like the next after all, talents be damned. Still, Tanaka the Forbidden had never been one to back down from a challenge. He had come to this place with a singular purpose in mind and he could not in good conscious leave without at least making the attempt.

He began his story slowly just as he had when he'd imparted the tale to the principal and just as before, just as always, he found himself adding little embellishments, details that would make the story better, more compelling. 

He was surprised when the mechanic stood and began to pace as he spoke, nodding often, his gaze distant and thoughtful.

“So,” the mechanic commented thoughtfully, when he had finally brought his tale to a close, “you need like an insulated transportation unit with better than average stabilization built-in and a couple power redundancies to make sure it never actually loses power even if something goes wrong. And it’s, uh, it's for a penguin, right? I mean, that’s what a… what’d you say it was?”

“Yuki-onna,” he answered, hesitantly. No one reacted this way to his stories, not even She-Cat for all her deep enthusiasm both for the source material.

“Right, Yuki-onna. That’s a great name. You get to work with all kinds of different animals, huh?”

“Yes."

“Oh, man, that’s cool. I've seen you with Miss Sonia... I bet she likes animals too,” he bounced on his toes, worrying at a fingernail as he stared down at the mass of parts spread across the towel. “Okay, so, it's a transport unit and that means it’s gotta be pretty lightweight, but since it needs to stay cold you’ll need a pretty decent-size compressor and I’ll need to find a way to rig the coils and the expansion for maximum efficiency because if the power unit is too massive its gonna really add to the… oh! Oh  _crap_ , it needs to be pretty big too, right? Gotta give the little fella some space to roam around. So, if I’m gonna lose some weight it’s gonna have to be in the materials probably since it’s definitely gonna need all that other stuff.” He patted his hands against the pockets of his coveralls, frowning, “Crap, you don’t happen to have something to write with, do you? Think I left my pen in my workshop. Oh, there, cool.”

He plucked the pencil from his breast pocket as if it was nothing, as if his barriers and protections meant _nothing_.

What manner of fiend was he?

His stomach knotted as the mechanic hesitated- gaze no doubt catching the well-chewed end- before he dropped to his knees beside the bench, pulling the paper bag from beneath his dinner. He set the can of cola aside and held the half-eaten sandwich in his free hand. “I chew all my pens too,” he commented distractedly, as he began sketching out shapes across the stained brown paper using the elbow of his other arm to hold it still. “I think everybody does, but most people just like to pretend they don’t, which is kind of dumb, right? I mean, who cares? Anyway, I’m pretty sure I can rig something up for you... _if_ you want me to. You do want me to, right?”

He nodded once, quick and tight, it was still difficult to admit that this was not something he could procure for himself, but the school had been reluctant to bear the cost of the production of such a vital and expensive piece of equipment. Had denied his requests no matter how he phrased them, no matter how he tried to stress the urgency and importance of the situation or that what funds he had would never be enough to cover the purchase or even the _rental_ of such a unit.

For some unfathomable reason the mechanic had seemed relieved by his acquiescence, “Cool! Alright, um, it’s gonna take me a little while to, uh, figure out all the numbers and such. Do you know how much… she? Is it a she?”

“Yes.”

“Cool, okay, so do you know how much she weighs?” 

“Approximately 4.1kg.”

“Cool, okay, that’s not too bad. And like how cold are we talking? Like chilly or like freezing balls?” 

“In her natural habitat, the temperature rarely rises above freezing.”

“Okay, freezing balls, got it. Here, let me… hold on,” he tucked the pencil behind his ear and took a large bite out of his sandwich before crawling over to dig through his bag, tossing bits and pieces out of the way until he reemerged with a battered notebook. “Ha! Sorry, just remembered I threw this in here this morning. Okay, so, here’s what I’m….”

“Are you mocking me?”

The mechanic glanced up, swallowing hard, his eyes comically wide, “Huh?”

“If you are simply humoring me and have no intention of fulfilling my request I would ask that you tell me now for if you attempt to string me along and some harm should befall that Yuki-onna as a result I shall bring down a curse upon you that wi-“

“ _Whoa!_ Okay, _no_ , stop, okay. I…” He shook his head quickly, waving his sandwich and notebook back and forth frantically enough that part of the sandwich’s filling splattered across the bench between them.

Tuna perhaps?

Some sort of fish surely.

He was not certain, but it was distraction enough that he found himself silenced as the mechanic sped on filling the silence between with a spill of earnest words.

“Okay, I know I probably seem like that kinda guy, but I’m really… I wouldn’t do that. Please let me… look. I know you probably don’t… no one asks me to do stuff, okay? You’re the first person to ever ask, you know? The school has me work on projects for them as kind of like a work study thing. And I mean, it’s cool and all and it's not like I don't need the money, but it's not really all that interesting, you know? Stuff like this,” he tapped his finger against the scribbled over paper bag. “This is why I came here. I thought I’d be able to do this kind of stuff all the time. I mean, sure I work on my own personal projects, but… I don’t know. Look, if you don’t want me to do it, I get it, it’s fine, but… I _want_ to. I mean, I could probably even get it done this week if you don’t mind giving me a hand in the shop.”

“I will do what I must to assure her continued well-being,” he agreed slowly, though the strange nervous feeling in his belly remained.

The mechanic’s smile was wide and immediate, “Oh, man, that’s _great_. What was her name again?”

“Yuki-onna.”

“Right, yeah, I remembered just… didn’t want to say it wrong. Does that seem dumb?”

He had no idea what to make of this fiend and his unnatural enthusiasm. In truth, he reminded him of the She-Cat in that way and there was comfort to be had in the familiar.

Still, he was still uncertain of how much of what he could see was lies and how much truth.

“What is it you wish in return for this favor?”

“In return?" 

That same shocked expression.

He still couldn’t tell if it were genuine or not. 

“I do not wish to be in your debt without knowing your price, fiend. What would you have of me? Blood? Sacrifice? My first-born?”

“Oh… _oh!_  Payment, right, I don't really... uh… how about you help me with some of my projects? To make up the time I’ll spend on this one? The school keeps asking me to build things and fix stuff, but they never really give me enough time or help or anything.” 

“What kind of... projects?"

“There's, uh, hold on, I've got the list here somewhere just… hang on a second,” he tucked the notebook under one arm and took another bite of the meager remains of his sandwich as he patted his free hand over his pockets, finally producing a crumbled scrap of paper from his back pocket. “Ha, found it. Okay, so there's a generator in the old school building and a couple of air conditioning units in the main building and the reserve course building and then they want me to get to work on some sort of fancy isolation tank thing. So, nothing _too_ crazy, there's just a lot of it and it'd go faster if I had someone to lend me a hand, you know?” 

“I know nothing useful about the workings of lightning and steel.”

“Oh, that's not a problem, I mean I just…” he hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. “Look, you don't _have_ to if you don't want to, it's fine, I just thought… maybe….” He trailed off with a shrug, shoving the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and crumpling the list back into his pocket. 

He watched him chew in silence.

His sandwich-bloated cheeks reminded him pleasantly of Cham-P.

The mechanic shifted from foot to foot, fiddling with his notebook restlessly before setting it down on the bench, pushing it this way and that as if he were attempting to nudge it into a very specific position.

Eventually he swallowed and offered him a wilting smile before he pulled the pencil from behind his ear and turned his full attention to his notebook. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Just… don’t mind. It was a dumb idea anyway. I’ll still build your thing for you and you can just, I don’t know, pay for the materials or whatever. I can have an estima-“ 

“I do not jest,” he began, face and ears burning as he forced himself to speak past the lump forming in his throat. “I know nothing of invention or the demons of bridled lightning. Even the most simplistic of devices has been known to prove an almost insurmountable challenge.”

“Huh? Uh…. _oh!_ You mean you're no good with mechanical stuff? That’s fine. I mean, if you want, I can teach you.” 

Were his intentions honorable?

Was his offer made in good faith? 

He seemed earnest enough, but he had been fooled before. 

“Very well,” he said warily, searching the mechanic’s expression for even the faintest hint of deception. “If that is the price you would ask of me, I shall gladly accept your offer.”

"Really?" His teeth were very white and very sharp when he grinned, “Okay, _cool_. If you've got some time, you could help me work on the specs now, if you want to.”

He seemed so… _excited_.

His stomach churned.

Perhaps he should have eaten something more substantial for dinner after all.

The feel of the bench faded and he was standing once more on legs felt faltering and weak.

If he had been a lesser being, he would have dismissed the warmth in his face and the tightness in his belly as the seeds of some terrible illness.

In a way, he would not have been wrong.

He slumped forward against the cool of the shower wall, vaguely conscious of the hands still grazing the scars that lined his back.

His knees trembled with the strange echo of that feeling so like what he’d felt on the rollercoaster, that swooping sensation of momentarily weightlessness.

His face had been so _warm_.

Absurd.

All of this was so... absurd.

That hadn’t… they weren’t….

He had barely exchanged more than a handful of words with him during their time together on the island.

This had to be just another ploy, another stall to prevent him from breaking free of this unholy snare.

He was not so weak as to be swayed by such obvious lies.

A hand slid over his hip, rough calluses marking a path low across his belly, catching rough and painful against edges of the scattering of wounds there, edging up towards the gory reminder of how he had come to be in that unchanging Hell.

It had become difficult to breathe, as if the wretched fiend at his back were stealing the very oxygen from the air even as his touch sapped the strength from his body.

“Hey, you know,” the fiend murmured, knit material of his hat touching down against his shoulder. "Nobody'd probably know if we were to...uh...."

The material was softer than what he remembered.

He swallowed hard as that rough hand smoothed across his stomach, bringing warmth coursing through his body despite himself, his blood surging hot and low to harden that which had laid slack and listless between his legs since his arrival in this dismal place.

"Hey," he murmured, lips and breath warm against his shoulder blade. His fingers traced the edge of one of the smaller gashes on his belly idly; pain buzzed in his head as if the wings of Beelzebub brushing against his brain. “You should really put something on these, they’ll get infected if you don't. They probably have some stuff at the pharmacy or the hospital or something.”

He laughed, he could not help it, the fiend’s words were simply too absurd to be borne, “No infection could survive in a body conditioned to withstand the venom of the great basilisk.”

The touch withdrew and his skin felt all the colder for the loss.

“Freaking  _seriously_?”

There was something ugly in those words, the way they were spat out as if they were bitter medicine.

He turned to stare at the creature behind him, startled by the sudden shift.

He looked different somehow, as if some piece of the illusion were wearing thin to reveal something more of the fiend he truly was rather than the familiar mask he wore.

He seemed… taller, perhaps?

Stretched thin, face gone sallow, hair too long, caught back in ragged braids beneath the dark material of its hat. Its eyes were wide, wild, its hands shaking as it pulled at the dark of its shirt, as its fingers scrapped over its chest as if they'd been cast adrift and searching for a place to lay anchor. “Why can't I just… why can’t you just let me enjoy this? Why can't I just… enjoy… whatever the heck this is,  _huh_? I just wanted… I just….”

Ragged fingernails scrapped across its cheeks leaving pale lines behind before its fingers finally found purchase in its hat, tugging it down over its ears, low across its brow.

“I am deadly serious,” he began, slowly. Whatever manner of fiend this shade truly was it was most certainly a creature best approached with caution. “What good would I be as a warrior were my body not made to withstand such things?”

It giggled. 

It was a terrible sound.

“Are you _freaking kidding me?”_ The shade snarled, his voice rising shrill with something like rage, something that stank of hysteria.  _“_ You can’t withstand  _shit_! You  _died_ , you freaking  _asshole_!” The fiend’s teeth were bared, its eyes wide and furious, knuckles white. “You freaking  _killed him_  and then you freaking  _died_!”

He should not allow this beast to rile him with such obvious attacks, but knowing that did not keep the heat of anger from stirring within his breast. If it had come to say those words wearing a different face, it might have been easy to ignore, but no demon worth fighting would dare come to challenge him wearing so simple a guise.

He was ashamed to admit it had been difficult to remember from one moment to the next that the fiend before him had been a trick and not the genuine article.

“Would it have been better if we had all simply died a slow, agonizing death in that place?” He'd snapped, advancing on the fiend before him and thrusting a finger against its chest. “Would you have rather I allowed us to destroy each other when we were far too long gone to recover? Would you rather I had laid down and simply allowed that fiendish bear to win the day?”

“You’re making it  _worse_ , man!” The fiend snarled, its face twisted up in a parody of agony that made his chest ache in sympathy, as if that illusion of pain were enough to pierce his own faltering defenses. “Don’t _say it_ like that! Don’t say it like you did it for  _us_. Like there weren’t other options. Hinata would have-  _we_  would have- thought of  _something_.”

He forced a laugh, loud and boisterous, he would not allow this shade to see how its carefully chosen words had affected him. He would not allow himself to fall prey to such a tepid scheme, to second guess actions that could never be taken back, “ _Fool_. I would have never sacrificed my existence for such a cause. I would never lend my aid to save those that lacked the will to save themselves.”

“We didn’t… I mean we would have… shut up! Shut up, shut up,  _shut up_!” Spittle landed damp and warm against his cool flesh as the fiend’s temper flared, face reddening with the frustration of a battle lost.

They’d reached the door to the shower room, left open when the fiend had entered - or perhaps he himself had never thought to close it when he’d entered that cursed room to cleanse the filth of days from his flesh - either way the blithering shade continued to give way before him, stumbling back through the door and tripping over its own feet, tumbling back onto the ground with a yelp.

Joy surged through his breast, sudden and unexpected, turning his bravado into something real, “If I were to die, I would at least choose the method of my demise. I would not allow the wheel of fate to crush me beneath her heel as they all so clearly intended to allow it to crush them. That they survived was merely a reasonably satisfactory side effect of my efforts to save myself from such a pitiable death.”

“S-screw you,” the shade at his feet snapped in reply, glaring up at him with narrowed, defiant eyes as if the fight weren’t already won and it had not been dealt a critical blow that was surely enough to banish it from the board.

Perhaps that had been his mistake- to believe an enemy defeated merely because he wished it so- for he did not expect or react in time to prevent the blow when the fiend lashed out at him with a sudden kick, felling him as if he were a mighty oak brought low by a single powerful, deplorable blow scored against that most sensitive of areas.

The pain was sudden, blinding in its intensity as it shot needles through his brain and blackened his vision. He dropped to his knees, groaning as his hands leapt to shield the injury too late.

It had been only a glancing blow, but even so weak a touch could be fatal when it landed so precisely against one's most sensitive area.

“ _Oh!_  Oh, man, oh  _shit_ ,  _shit_ , sorry, I… oh  _crap_ , I didn’t mean to… why didn't you _dodge_ or something?” The fiend’s screech seemed pitched specifically to worsen the ache in his head as he lay upon the floor, panting, as snarling black tendrils of agony ripped through his body, powerless to do anything but suffer and writhe beneath the spell of a torment far more severe than any he had suffered before. Even dying had been a pleasure cruise, the thrust of a rhino's tusk a mercy and all the aches that had haunted the long days since seemed but a minor inconvenience compared to the bitter, terrible throb caused by that desperate blow. “Oh, man, this is your  _fault_! You just kept coming at me and I just… I mean…  _fuck_. Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t… sorry. It’s just… you’re supposed to be… what the heck, man? Crap, crap,  _crap_.”

He could feel hands fluttering against his skin like moth’s wings- brushing against his shoulder, his arm, his back- unable to settle, perhaps uncertain of their welcome.

It was a unpleasant sensation, but one he hadn’t the presence of mind to turn away. 

His balls _ached_.

Everything _hurt_.

“Oh man, should I… should I just go get you some clothes or some ice or…  _crap_. Where would I… I want some ice. Ice, ice, ice, ice, ice, _ice, dammit_. Stupid _freaking_ broken freaking _brain_ , why won’t you do anything I want you to do, huh? “

He’d cracked his eyes open to glare up at him, but he’d found his vision cloudy with unbidden tears and quickly closed them again, turning his face into the ground so the fiend would not see the vile evidence of such human fragility trickling across his cheeks, dripping from the bridge of his nose.

Fortunately, it seemed the fiend was far more interested in playing its role than exploiting such obvious weakness. “This is so stupid, man. What the hell… I just… you need, um, ice. Look, I'll, uh, I'll go get some. Yeah, I’m gonna… there was like a diner or something near here, right? I’ll just… I’ll just go… do… that… I guess. I’ll… um… I’ll be back.”

And then he was gone.

The door banging shut carelessly behind him and he was left to the tender mercies of throbbing pain the lukewarm tiles of the shower floor.

Never had he imagined he would be so grateful for _silence_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, you can find me on [tumblr](https://midnight-run-amok.tumblr.com/) if you're into that sort of thing. More extensive chapter notes can be found there. Cheers! :)
> 
> Oh, in case anyone is curious, there is (as I mentioned up top) a reason the formatting in this chapter more closely resembles that of earlier chapters. And, I'm not sure if this will have proven a problem for anyone but, just in case, the scenes that are clearly from before the island are indeed out of order and time passed between them all so none of those scenes occurs right after another. Just... FYI.


	24. Waited in a Row

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...the time had come to talk...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the last chapter you read was a Gundham chapter and the chapter before that centered on Nekomaru, you're right where you need to be. Cheers. :)

**DAY TWO**  
-continued-  
+++

 _“We all create stories to protect ourselves.”_  
― Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves

 **+++**  

He met a devil in the depths of Schwarzwald.

When he came upon him in a clearing, the devil was sitting upon a fallen tree trunk as if he had been waiting there for hours for him to arrive.

When he had walked into the clearing, the devil had greeted him by name in the first moment, both voice and expression flat and disinterested.

"I have come to bargain with you, Gundham Tanaka."

The devil had spoken German flawlessly, without even the barest hint of foreign accent, and had spoken Japanese with the same precision when the devil switched seamlessly to it following that initial greeting.

"In respect for the power you have demonstrated in managing to see through my cloaking spell and discover my whereabouts, I shall allow you to leave here with your life."

The devil ignored his generous offer and continued to speak as if he had given a different response altogether, "You will go to a place of my choosing."

He could not hope to stifle the laughter that bubbled up within him. How long had it been since someone had dared defy him?

"And what do you propose to offer me in exchange for my cooperation?"

The devil did not flinch, did not even acknowledge the mockery in his tone. The cadence of the devil's voice remained flat and unimpressed, his expression as placid as still water, "You ask what I would offer, but you already know that there is nothing left in this world that would be of interest to one such as yourself."

He murmured a spell of banishment making the necessary signs with agile fingers, but the devil continued to stare at him unblinking as if he were waiting for an answer though he had asked no question. 

"You are not wrong," the devil had continued eventually, seemingly unperturbed by his lack of response. "You will attack me and you will be rewarded with only the despair and frustration you will glean from complete and total defeat."

He startled, his blood already racing at the prospect of battle, at the offer of a challenge.

 _Defeat_... it was an intriguing prospect. 

A contest of strength or will between powerful creatures of darkness to see which would reign supreme.

He called to him the beasts that followed him, that dwelt always in the shadows near at hand and leapt to confront this foolish devil to gift it the end it so richly deserved. 

Defeat- when it finally arrived, hours upon hours later- tasted of blood and bile and dirt.

Those beasts that had been foolish enough to answer his call lay broken or whimpering all around them. He could see their still, limp forms from where he lay, bruised and broken, at the feet of his foe.

Could hear those that lived as they whined and begged, entreating him to end their misery, but he found himself too weak to answer their call.

Every breath seared pain into the very fibers of his being and his muscles were caught in a screaming agony from which there was no relief even while he lay motionless upon the churned earth that had served as their battleground. 

"You survived twenty-three seconds longer than expected," his opponent stated, soft words delivered with the same flat recitation as every other syllable he had uttered since he had come upon him that morning. 

The devil was not even  _winded_.

If he'd had the strength left in his faltering body to lift his head and look upon him, he was certain the devil would appear as unruffled as he had when he had first appeared before him. His suit and hair still dark as a moonless night, untainted by blood or dust, untouched by even the most cursory of blows, lacking even the faintest indication of the battle that had raged between them. 

"You were more stubborn than I had anticipated you would be."

"What will you do with me now that I am at your mercy?" He would have asked if he had still had breath and power enough to push the words from his lungs, but even in silence his enemy seemed able to anticipate his thoughts as the devil had read and countered his every move. 

A light blue folder filled with white paper was placed gently on the ground beside him, close enough that his panting breath ruffled the pages within with ever exhausted exhalation, "You will read this. When you are done, you will turn yourself over to the custody of Naegi Makoto of Fourteenth Division. We will not meet again."

The devil's footsteps were slow and measured, crushing dead leaves beneath a heavy, purposeful tread as he left without bothering to wait for a reply.

There was little doubt the devil already knew what he would do.

 **DAY THREE**  
**03:50:47 UTC**  
-continued-  
**+++**

“Hey,” the creature above him called out, loud and abrupt, summoning his attention back to it once more and away from the deepening swamp of memory. “Why won't you talk to me anyway? Are you mad because of what I told Hinata?”

Hinata...?

The word tumbled over and over inside his head like a falling rock tumbling down a long, dark well.

It took far longer than it should have for that word to return an image from the dark waters of his memory.

_Hinata._

Yes, he remembered Hinata... from the island.

Which seemed strange given all he had remembered since.

Who or what had he been? 

Not one of them, to be certain, but there had been something familiar about him nonetheless.

Something beyond the memories of that island, a truth at the core of whatever lies clothed him, a truth he could not yet reach.

He remembered well how he had approached him during that first day and after. The way he had sought him out and spoken with him while he tended to the creatures of the farm, his interest in him a puzzle he could not begin to understand.

He could recall with startling clarity the way the late afternoon sunlight had fallen across this Hinata's stiff, white-clad shoulders as he'd perched upon the wooden fence, the way it had cast long shadows before him as if he were far larger in spirit than in body.

All this, yet he found he could not remember his _words_.

Could only recall the way he had said them and the careful, cautious way he had approached him, as if he were an animal likely to shy or spook if exposed to sudden movements or loud noises or the force of too much interest.

And perhaps there had been some truth to that.

He had, after all, reacted poorly each time Hinata had reached out to him, flinching back instinctively to stutter through explanations that had always tasted as much of truth as they had of fiction. Night after night, he had lain awake trying to sort one from the other, failing again and again, the truth lost in a dark mire of his own invention.

He was Tanaka. He was the Forbidden One. Master of the Four Dark Devas of Destruction. Dark Overlord of... _something_. 

The world, _yes_ , that sounded about right.

All that he had known to be true, but the rest....

He hadn't been certain.

His uncertainty made more sense now that his mind was slowly being filled to the brim with jagged, relentless fragmented memories of missteps and horrors and a life lived filled with rage and regret and glimpses of the sins he had committed while locked in the clutches of despair.

All he had known during his time on the isle of the damned was that it was dangerous to be touched, to allow others to come too close and that Hinata must have been a truly extraordinary entity to be able to stand in his presence for so long and emerge unscathed.

He remembered standing beside him on the beach, in the amusement park. He remembered speaking with him on that strange joyless playground during those final days as he made a futile effort to ignore the hungry beast consuming him from within, the ever-growing discontent of a body whose energy stores had already been utterly depleted.

The quiet resignation in his eyes as he'd cast his vote in that farcical trial.

Who was Hajime Hinata?

What had he done to deserve confinement amongst the damned?

Had they been friends?

Foes?

Strangers?

Perhaps the creature lingering above him knew his questions, knew the answers to his uncertainty.

“What are you-“ he began, the desire to ask, to  _know_ , triumphing over the will to remain silent for one brief moment before he remembered himself and choked back the rest of the question, snapping his jaw shut with a fierce clack of teeth. He let his frustration and confusion expire in silence within the cage of his mouth, fury smoldering within him as he turned away from its triumphant grin.

He turned his glare to the dark water sloshing around his booted feet and cursed himself a fool.

He had sworn an oath to himself upon the memory of those he held most dear that he would not fall into the trap of this fiend’s false company again no matter how it persisted.

 _He_  was not there.

It was  _not_  him.

It was not him and it was not  _her_ , it was not _anything_ of importance. It was merely a nameless minor demon making mockery of his pain, a sinister shade that appeared to test his resolve only when he was at his most vulnerable.

Many a night he had lain awake in his bed, unable to sleep no matter how thoroughly exhausted he was by the day's endeavors. And as he lay there in the darkness of his cabin, he had often wondered if there were no demons at all. If instead every moment spent in their presence were only his own mind crafting castles in the air to ease his suffering when he was at his lowest. Comfort and torment married together to taunt and console him in equal measure within the frame of each new specter that arrived to plague him with its presence.  

His teeth ached as he drove the shovel into the muck once more, shoving at the base with his booted foot to bury it deep within that sodden earth once more.

Why did it  _linger_?

What did it hope to gain?

Why did it continue to plague him time again?

Did it wish to draw him out?

What terrible satisfaction would it gain from the breaking of his resolve?

Twice he had allowed this shape-changer to fool him into forgetting even after he had guessed its true nature.

He would  _not_  be fooled again.

Not again.

 **DAY TWO**  
-continued-  
+++

A shadow fell across him, the relief from the burning heat of the brilliant sun above so sudden and abrupt that he startled, slamming back against the edge of hole, bringing his shovel up defensively, his heart fluttering wildly in his chest like a panicked bird.

The sun shone bright behind the shade’s head, blinding him and casting its features into shadow as it came just a bit closer, scuffing the sand at the edge of the whole and sending it cascading down around him.

“What are you doing?” It…  _she_  asked in a voice that was both familiar and foreign at once, a voice that seemed to echo around him, garbled only slightly by the crash of the sea beyond.

It had been so long since he’d heard anything beside the roar of ocean waves and the scrap of sand that for too long he could only stare up at her in stunned silence. He wasn’t sure how much time passed, whether it was minutes or hours or a mere handful of seconds, but once he was finally able to claw his composure back into place, she still stood there before him. Towering above him, looking no less herself for the strangeness of her clothes.

It made his eyes ache to look upon her, to see the strange longing in her expression and the way the sunlight made her hair glisten beneath its heavy glare.

He wondered why it was so difficult to look upon her.

They had only ever been….

“Hello,” she said, her enunciation crisp and precise as she bowed, her hair falling forward around her, hands clutched and knotted nervously at her waist. “This is the proper method of greeting, is it not? I was told…” she trailed off, frowning, her brow knit in something between confusion and determination. 

Was it?

He had seen men bow to one another before, he was certain, but no one had ever bowed to him.

Was he meant to bow in return?

There was a small burst of sound, quickly muffled and he glared at a small girl with a high ponytail who was poorly muffling giggles behind her hand.

The girl before him was flushed red as she squared her shoulders, tipped her chin upwards and continued to speak undaunted as those poorly muffled squawks turned into full-blown laughter.

“I am Sonia Lola Michalina Isabella Marieke Eliana Nevermind and I… oh, goodness, that was too much, was it not? I have forgotten myself. Clearly, it is customary to only introduce oneself with a given and surname here. Sonia Nevermind. I am Sonia Nevermind and it is very pleasant to meet you.”

Her efforts were admirable and it was not difficult to make the decision to return her greeting in kind. He took a moment to murmur an incantation to safeguard that name which he had chosen for himself, to keep it from being turned against him should it one day become his true name, the name that could invoke his presence through its mere utterance. 

“I am called Tanaka and I am….”

“My word,” she breathed, cutting through his words with the sharp efficiency of a falling blade, her eyes widening as Cham-P poked her head from the depths of his scarf, uncharacteristically early on her entrance. She blinked, eyes widening as if just realizing he had stopped speaking, “Oh my, I apologize, that was rude, was it not? I...  _interrupted-_  yes, that is it- I _interrupted_ you and did not intend to. Apologies, Mr. Tanaka, for my distraction. It is just...” She trailed off, her gaze shifting away to lock upon Cham-P’s generous form as she emerged fully from his scarf to settle upon his shoulder. Her eyes seemed gleam with a light they had lacked before, the fire of interest bringing her to life, making her real in a way she hadn’t been until that moment. “Are you the one who cares for her? She is  _magnificent_.”

His momentum was broken, the introduction he had been prepared to give stalling into silence as she leaned forward into his space, offering her fingers for Cham-P’s inspection.

His breath stuttered as he fought the instinctive urge to sway back away from her reaching fingers.

So rare was it that they were treated as the marvelous creatures they were, with the respect and admiration they so obviously deserved. He had grown sued to humans demonstrating their ignorance and overlooking  their many gifts, viewing them as little more than common pets or- worse yet- inconvenient pests.

“I apologize. Is this quite alright? I do not wish to impose.”

His face felt very hot despite the brisk chill that had lingered in the morning air.

What other answer was there than….

His head throbbed and his chest still ached even as the beat of his heart slowed to something slightly less riotous and the school room faded around him, the weight upon his shoulder vanishing as suddenly as it had appeared and leaving an aching coldness in his belly in exchange.

They were gone.

Long gone.

And he stood waist deep in a hole of his own creation once more, face and shoulders burning beneath the heat of the endless summer sun. She towered above him, sand falling between them as she shuffled nearer the edge of the hole, the toes of her shoes poking just over the edge.

They gleamed a brilliant red beneath the bright light of morning.

Her shoes had always been polished until they gleamed like that.

The past was so close and the present felt so distant and he belonged to neither and neither belonged to him.

She had asked him a question.

The least he could do was answer it.

“I….” He began slowly, uncertainly, his voice rough with disuse.

She gave him an encouraging nod, her hands knotted in front of her as if they were clasped in some prelude to prayer.

 _What are you doing_ , she had asked.

What  _was_  he doing?

He glanced at the shovel in his aching hands, hands that were sore and bore the calluses of many days of fruitless toil.

What was his purpose in this endeavor?

Was everything he did simply a way to keep busy his idle hands?

Or was he trying to lose himself in fog of exhaustion?

Was he attempting to forget? To remember? To reconcile the memories of two lives within one cursed body?

To what purpose?

What would be the point?

He had no answers.

Perhaps he had simply been trying not to think on it too deeply, not to dwell on those conflicting memories warring for dominance within him. The harsh and undeniable truth that he could spend an eternity digging on that deserted beach and it would never make the slightest bit of difference, for them or for him.

In the end, perhaps all he was doing was finding a way to endure his solitude.

Weak effort though it was.

He must have given her an answer, but even as the words passed his lips he forgot them, lost them or dismissed them for the poor excuse they inevitably were. It was impossible to put into words what he was truly attempting when he himself did not even fully grasp the scope and purpose of it.

She must have thought so as well, for she retreated from the edge in silence and left him to it.

He could still sense her there as the relative cool of morning gave way to the sweltering heat of afternoon. Saw her sitting in the distance- her expression blank and listless- as he trudged across the beach digging pit after pit, his thoughts weighted down by heaps of imagined words. A thousand different foolish attempts at conversations that he would never have and actions he would never take. Eventually she would vanish as his companion in the darkness of his first awakening had vanished and he would find himself alone once more and he would suffer more for the lack than he would have if he simply refused to engage with her in the first place. So he remained silent, grimly going about his work, ignoring the mild pain caused by every movement, the hundred tiny gapping holes stretching and stinging as the salt of his sweat dripped upon them and the unpleasant grit of sand rubbed across them.

Every movement, every breath he took was a punishment, a pointless penance to be endured, lacking even the faintest whisper of a thrill.

Sometimes his mind drifted to all those faceless many who had met their untimely ends by his command. All those magnificent and unique creatures who had suffered and died in his care. To all those faceless, anonymous humans whose blood soaked the fields and streets of his dreams. 

But those thoughts never lingered overlong, overwhelmed by exhaustion and the constant aches and pains that, with each passing day, began to seem more and more like trusted, well-met companions in his journey through the afterlife.

Never did he allow himself to dwell overlong on the Devas, so notably absent from memories of those dark and terrible days, or on her presence lingering still as the sky grew dark and darker still.

Even as night fell, he could still feel her gaze upon him, intent, a heavy and unforgiving weight.

Had she lost her life to that game as well?

Or was she merely the same demon wearing another familiar visage?

When he finally gave in and turned to look upon her once more, he found her sitting in the deepening shadow beneath a bent palm, her hair loose and shining around her in the fading sunlight.

She had always been beautiful.

Though he always thought it to be the least of her many admirable qualities.

She had worn the blood of their enemies smeared across her fair skin like war paint as she'd stood wreathed in smoke, dressed in blood and soot-stained silk and lace as she issued orders to her troops from atop the remains of one of her mighty war machines. The armies of a dozen conquered countries, a thousand warriors drenched in despair, had knelt at her feet, had praised her name.

Her eyes had been wide and bright, her smile wide, as she'd ordered them to kill for her, as she condemned them to die on her behalf just as she'd commanded hundreds and thousands before them. They were cannon fodder, nothing more than a means to an end.

 _Her_ end.

If despair had a scent it would have been smoke and gun metal, blood and rot.

He had watched it all from close-by, fingers stroking absent-mindedly over the course fur of the monsterous hound at his side.

An arm had settled across his shoulders, a warm breath against his ear as a familiar voice had whispered words he could not hear over the roar of gunfire and the howls of the dead and dying. 

But the scent of engine grease and motor oil was strong enough that it might eclipse the reek of despair if he closed his eyes and turned his face from the battlefield.

He woke from memory to find himself standing on the beach, shoulders burning beneath the light of the moon.

She was staring at him and even though he could not see her clearly, he thought her expression was expectant.

 _What do you want from me,_  he thought, but did not ask.

Waves lapped against the shore.

They always sounded hungry, those waves.

Sometimes he dreamed they were slowly consuming the ground beneath his feet, rising higher and higher with every passing day until one morning he would wake to find the water rising around him, the vile island beneath his feet finally vanishing beneath those thirsty waves once and for all and he along with it.

Hell was high water and an inability to swim.

Hell was a puzzle full of holes and no pieces left to fill them.

“Yours shall be separate from the rest, She-Cat,” he told her and while he’d meant that declaration to be a comfort, he could tell by the way her entire body flinched from him that he had chosen his words poorly.

He’d never been good with words.

Or people.

It was difficult to look upon her, so he turned back to his work once more.

He had continued to dig long into the night.

Once or twice he thought he'd heard her sobbing, the sound muffled by distance and the ocean waves, but he did not dare look back again to be sure.

It felt as if something inside him might break if he did.

Eventually night fell and silence with it and as he retired to his cabin to fall into an exhausted slumber there had been no ghosts left to haunt him but those that existed solely within the depths of his own tattered mind.

  
**DAY THREE**  
**03:50:51 UTC**  
-continued-  
**+++**

Though he understood each word that passed its lying lips, he could not begin to fathom the meaning or the purpose behind any of them. He kept his silence, endeavoring to ignore it, but still it persisted as if it might make itself understood in quantity where it had so obviously failed in quality.

“Because, I mean, I  _get it_. I probably shouldn’t have told HInata all that about all the...  _you know_... touching and stuff…."

It just kept speaking and speaking and  _speaking_ , issuing forth a spill of words seemingly without end as if he were meant to  _know_ , as if everything it spoke of should have been obvious to him as if it could not imagine a world in which its words were not understood. 

If he were one to fear things, he might fear that it would never stop as much as he already dreaded the moment when it finally, inevitably,  _would_  and he would be left alone again to the mercy of his own thoughts and doubts once more. Abandoned yet again to the hopeless trudge through this endless punishment and the perilous mire of half-remembered yesterdays.

He did not long for the fiend's companionship, but he would be foolish not to recognize the fatal and very human weakness at the core of his being that doomed him to feel its absence so completely during the silent hours of the times between. 

“That was my bad. I mean, I probably shouldn’t even have been thinking about you like that anyway, right? But I mean, c’mon, it’s not like... it's not like I  _meant_ anything by telling him, you know? I was kind of- I don’t know- just trying to make him  _feel_  better. We’re supposed to be friends, right? And that’s what friends  _do_ , isn't it?"

As if he would know such a thing.

"I mean he’s  _gay_  for  _Komaeda_. That's gotta be rough, right? I mean, I guess we all kind of  _knew_ they were... whatever. None of us even wanted to be near the guy after what he did to Togami, but Hinata was all… oh, _oh!_  I met the real Togami. Like the really, real one. Cause, you know, ours was an imposter so, of course, there was a real one, right? And, man, he is just a total _dick_. Ours was way cooler.  _Is_ way cooler. Whatever. Anyway, the real one is just… kind of the worst. I mean Naegi seems alright, but Togami? I’m pretty sure he’d of been happy if  _none_ of us had made it out. But, whatever, that’s fine. It’s not like we need his approval or anything, right?"

He cast a glare up at it through the ruin of his hair, sparing a hand to swipe the loose, sopping tendrils from his face with a quick, impatient jab.

His attention kept falling away from it, washed away by memory or exhaustion or both, dragged free by the ache of muscles or the needling pain of open wounds.

And still it sat there, blathering on, oblivious, it's bare, muddy feet dangling over him like a portent of doom. Absently chewing on one nail as it stared off into space like it had forgotten about him altogether. As if his presence were completely unnecessary and unremarked. It barely even seemed bothered by the rain splashing down across its face as it kicked its bare heels against the side of the grave, sending bits of debris cascading down upon him.

The smile wilting across its lips was shaky and self-deprecating and terribly, terribly familiar.

He gripped the shovel tighter so his hands would not tremble in sympathetic response.

_Fool._

Don’t _look_ at it.

He turned his attention back to the darkness, to the water rising around him.

His hands ached where they gripped the shovel.

The creature glanced down at him and cleared its throat, a parody of embarrassment twitching across its face. "A- _Anyway_ , so, um, like I was saying... liking  _Komaeda_  is kinda like wanting to bone  _a_   _bear trap_  or something, so I, you know, I felt _bad_ for him. I mean, sure, we’re all kind of nuts, I guess we’d have to be to do all that stuff they said we did, but Komaeda lopped off his freaking  _arm_  and replaced it with hers. I haven't seen it yet, but... I kinda...  remember it a little, I guess, and that’s just… that's _next level_ crazy. I mean, what are the chances he’s gonna wake up  _less_  crazy, you know? It's not like he was ever anything like normal even when we were there.”

He did  _not_ know.

Not what he was talking about or about Komaeda or about anything _else_.

Nor did he wish to.

All he wanted was to be left _alone_.

He lifted another shovelful of mud and heaved it out of the hole, narrowly missing the tenacious fiend who didn't even bother to flinch away from the mud and water this time. It just kept speaking, words tumbling out to fill the silence.

"I mean he was kind of just always like that, wasn’t he? Like even before all that despair stuff there was something just...  _really_  off with him. He was always… weird. I used to go up to the roof sometimes, when I needed to think or just wanted to get away from stuff and this one time he just standing up there, right at the edge, looking down. It was raining and he’s just standing there, no coat or anything,  _singing_  while rain poured down on his stupid fluffy head. And I….”

It trailed off into silence, muttering something so low that he wouldn’t have been able to catch it even if he’d cared enough to try.

It heaved an enormous sigh, feet kicking back against the walls and sending mud cascading down upon him.

“This  _sucks_. It's like... it's like I  _think I_  remember something and then it just kind of... falls apart. Like it's all just  _pieces_  and none of them really fit right. Like I’m sure I remembered stuff last time I dreamed about you, but it’s… I can’t….”

 **DAY TWO**  
-continued-  
**+++**

He was not certain how much time had passed only that the pain had finally faded to a dull ache and the tears leaking from his eyes had dried at last, leaving his skin feeling stiff and strange, his sinus’ clogged by an infernal plague of unshed snot.

Still, even with the worst of the ache abated, he saw no reason to move too quickly and risk the return of that exquisite agony.

It wasn’t as if he had anywhere to go, after all.

Strange that for all his differences, his body should still hold the same weaknesses so common in humans.

It was disappointing.

It always had been.

It had always seemed as if his body should be made of sterner stuff, that that evolutionary quirk which had made him so different from others should have also made it so he might withstand such blows with ease. It was almost comical to find that he had retained that same inescapable weakness even in this bitter purgatory, as if this Hell were being scored points for accuracy.

Though perhaps he should have expected that, since it had put such thorough effort into the creation of that loathsome-

The door was shoved open and- as if summoned by his thoughts- the creature that wore Souda’s familiar features stumbled through, red-faced and panting with exertion, holding out a dripping plastic sack filled with dark containers before it as if it were a shield or an offering.

“The…” it began, before shaking its head and waving a hand at him as if he were supposed to instinctively understand what that gesture was supposed to mean.

Supposed to know what it was doing as it blew air like an enraged bull and began rummaging through the unfortunate bag as if it were far larger than it seemed and filled with far more choices than it appeared to be. A bag of infinite holding, perhaps.

“There was,” it tried again with a heavy breathless pant that matched perfectly the heave of its chest and the exhaustion painted across its stolen face.

It was ridiculously realistic, a truly masterful touch.

He would admire it if it hadn’t felt quite so much like the familiarity of each of those careless motions were a needle punching through his chest cavity.

He could only make out every few words, but they were enough to paint a picture.

“Wasn’t any… ice… at the… had to go… market…  _here_.”

It dropped to its knees before him, uncomfortably close and completely heedless of that fact, as it thrust a damp black carton into his face.

Ice cream?

He squinted at the label and while the text was blurry so close, the brand was passingly familiar.

“Oh man, I'm gonna be sick,” the shade complained, still playing at the fragility of humanity, as it bent over to rest its free hand against one knee, it's head hanging down as it took great, heaving breaths.

He turned his gaze away, back to the carton still hovering between them.

Grilled Eggplant.

A truly repugnant flavor.

Likely unfit for consumption by even the most vile of beasts.

Perhaps the only truly suitable end for such a terrible flavor was to cool the ache in his nether-regions.

The demonic entity at his side made a passable imitation of a cat working free a hairball though nothing more than a few long strings of spittle actually made it past its chapped lips.

“Ugh, that was gross,” it muttered, wiping at its mouth with the back of its hand when it was done.

It frowned when it realized he had yet to accept its offering. “C’mon, it’ll…”

It paused, lips trembling in a way that made his chest tighten painfully.

When it spoke again its voice was thicker, heavier and it pushed the damp cool of the carton against his cheek more forcefully as if perhaps he simply hadn't understood that he was meant to take it. “Just let me do this, _okay_?”

It sounded almost like a plea.

The accuracy of its impression of him lent a level of unrelenting cruelty to the moment.

He found himself taking the offered container gingerly, frowning at how the damp cardboard squished beneath the pressure of his grip.

“Look, I’m… I’m really… I’m  _sorry_ , okay?” The fiend grimaced, scratching at the back of its head, fingers yanking at that ridiculous knit cap he had always worn. “Sorry, I know, it’s kinda… I mean, it’s  _really_  hot out there. I ran as fast as I could, but… that’s the best I could do, you know? Sorry I’m… sorry. I know it's…”

It trailed off, shrugging listlessly.

He supposed it was better than nothing.

Not that he was grateful for the effort.

Not when he wasn't even certain why he was willing to take such a suspect offering, to hold it close against his body, not even if it were as it seemed, merely a balm for the damage it had caused him.

He flinched as he pressed the damp chill of the package between his legs.

It was surprisingly pleasant though it did little enough to sooth the vicious ache within.

Less effective than it might have been to return to the brisk waters of the shower, perhaps, but this at least did not require the inevitable torment of that short trudge.

“I, um… I grabbed a bunch, because I didn’t really know what to get,” the creature shrugged, tugging off its hat and wiping its brow with the back of one arm, before poking listlessly at the sack and its contents. “When I… when I was, uh, little I used to use like bags of frozen vegetables or cans of beer. So, I thought maybe that'd work… but there wasn’t… there wasn’t anything like that there so it was kind of... ice cream or bust.”

If the fiend were waiting for a reply, it gave no sign as it sat there beside him, silent at last.

Not quite close enough to touch, but within easy reach all the same.

“What do you hope to gain from this?” He asked finally even knowing he could not trust any answer it might give.

“I don't know,” it sighed and there was a desperate honesty to that statement, to the way he felt it echo within him. “Why're there so many holes in the beach?”

“They're not holes,” he replied simply.

“Then what…” It trailed off and then there was an audible gasp as the fiend’s head snapped up, mouth open and gapping as it stared at him with wide eyes. “N-no way… they’re  _graves_ , aren’t they?”

He allowed himself a small smile, inexplicably pleased to have his intentions understood so effortlessly, “For all I have lost, it seemed a fitting way to pass the time.”

It snorted, rolling its eyes and glancing away, “You were always so freaking  _morbid_ ….”

He let the word linger unremarked in the air between them, part compliment and part insult, true and false.

The next question - when it finally allowed the words to slip from its lips - was asked so softly he barely heard it at all and with such hesitance that it seemed as if it were asking something else altogether.

“Does it help?”

It was the sort of question _he_ would have asked.

In moments like these, the accuracy with which it mimicked him was startling and terrible and he found himself turning the question over and over in spite of himself, considering his answer carefully even though he knew he should have simply ignored it altogether.

 _Did_ it help?

When he’d first woken up, there had been nothing.

Nothing and no one when the darkness had retreated taking that brief illusion of companionship with it and leaving him to pain and the chill of ocean waves, the grit of sand beneath his fingernails.

The island had been quiet and barren around him and he had been - for the first time in a long time - defenseless and alone.

He had lain upon that damp sand with the feel of that touch already fading from his skin, washed away by the creeping ache of his wounds and the lap of chill water against his skin.

And he’d known, even in those first moments, that there was nothing for him there.

Nothing but that shovel, sticking out of the sand, as if it had always been there.

As if it always would be.

A constant reminder of all he had done and all he had lost and all he deserved.

It had seemed only natural that he should dig when the universe offered a shovel.

It was, at the very least, a way to pass the time.

Days had passed before he’d realized he was digging with purpose.

That he was….

It _wasn’t_ atonement.

Not precisely.

He had no desire to be forgiven and- even if he had- there was no one left to provide absolution. There was no act of contrition that he could perform to absolve himself of his part in all that had been done in the name of despair, that could erase his mistakes or return the dead to life.

There was nothing and there was no one and time mattered not at all.

But it was easier to ignore the conflict raging within him when he had a purpose.

Benign and pointless though that purpose had been, it still made it easier to face the images that haunted his dreams, that had invaded his waking hours and left him standing on lonely battlefields littered with the dead and dying, the corpses of men and beast alike, the scent of rot and gunpowder thick in the air again and again.

Stranded him in dark rooms where a rough voice murmured soft, meaningless words as they stripped his armor away, as they sometimes slipped deep inside, into places no human had ever dared touch. 

That had drenched his hands in blood, thick and wet, and stained the wooden handle of his shovel making the unfinished wood damp and spongy in his grip.

Sometimes he stood in an open field.

Sometimes a slaughterhouse.

Sometimes he was deep within a forest and there was only the snuffle of beasts around him to break the stillness of his thoughts.

The scattered memories blew through and around him, no sooner settling than they were gone again and he was left with only a fading impression of might have been.

Sometimes he knelt in a warm, noisy room and there was the feel of sweaty hands against his thighs, the scrap of ragged fingernails scratching anxious shapes along his tender flesh.

“Not really,” he answered finally, shrugging as he turned his gaze away to study the far wall, the open door and the malformed rectangle of sunlight the late afternoon sun cast across the dull tiles of the beach house floor.

Silence descended between them once more and he was grateful when the fiend didn't rush to break it with his increasingly confusing words and his thoroughly unnecessary questions.

Perhaps he and the boy whose shape it had stolen had often passed hours in such a manner- each tending their own concerns, loneliness eased simply by the quiet company of the other- for that silence had the comfort of long habit.

Perhaps it was sometimes enough just to know someone was there even if they had nothing more to offer than their presence.

Those strange disjointed memories that were slowly emerging from the dark, unchanging abyss within him, rising like mighty Leviathan to break the ocean’s surface, so often impossible to ignore, had seemed to return to the deep within his presence, to fall into a brief slumber that eased the knot of tension in his bones.

If he did not think on it too deeply it might even be pleasant to lie there, listening its every breath grew deeper, slower as overexertion wore away into exhaustion. Perhaps it was unwise to relax his guard even that much, but it was difficult to imagine that the creature at his side was truly capable of visiting upon him a fate worse than that which had already befallen him. And so he lay there beside it as afternoon faded to evening, allowing the chill of melting ice cream to smooth his aches, ignoring the vague discomfort as it slowly leaked out to puddle across the sand-covered floor.

“Sorry,” the fiend muttered eventually, the word dragging slow and reluctant between them.

He blinked his eyes open, turning to find him staring up at the ceiling and the fan turning lazily overhead.

Had there always been a fan there?

He could not recall.

Fingers brushed against the soft of his drying hair, sweeping across his forehead before settling against the curve of his neck, tracing the mound of scar tissue there, "Hey... can I tell you something?" It asked, voice hushed and quiet as if the coming of darkness had made it soft and docile.

It must have taken his silence for acquiescence, for in the next moment it was speaking again, soft and hushed as a trespassing child.

He snorted, rolling his eyes at the implication, “Who do you believe I would share your words with, fiend?”

The comment seemed to catch him by surprise, summoning a watery smile and a weak laugh from his lips, “Oh, right, yeah, I guess that’s true, huh? Yeah. Okay. So, I… I think I  _built them_. The pods, I mean. I mean not… not them  _exactly_ , but maybe something... something _like_ them. They're just so… familiar, you know?”

“…-are they?” He murmured as darkness swept across his vision, the soft cadence of his... its voice muffled, words impossible to decipher beneath the ringing of the bell.

For one strange, perilous moment, it felt as if he were dangling between memory and reality, a sword of Damocles waiting to fall as those fingers pressed against his throat, the salt of its skin stinging against the wounds there as the sound of static filled his head and the darkness finally swallowed him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more part to go in this arc. Cheers! 
> 
> As always thanks for reading and you can find me on tumblr as [midnight-run-amok](https://midnight-run-amok.tumblr.com/) if you're into that sort of thing. (And I swear to something that I am absolutely going to catch up on responding to comments someday. Please just know in the meantime that I read and appreciate the hell out of every last one. ^_^)


	25. Of Cabbages and Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...the time had come to talk...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you just read two chapters of Gundham PoV in a row, you're in the right place. If you haven't, you're gonna probably want to back it up a bit. Cheers! :)

**DAY TWO**  
-continued-  
+++

 _“Each of us assumes everyone else knows what HE is doing. They all assume we know what WE are doing. We don't...Nothing is going on and nobody knows what it is. Nobody is concealing anything except the fact that he does not understand anything anymore and wishes he could go home.”_  
― Philip K. Dick, VALIS

**+++**

The bell rang again.

It seemed as if it had been ringing for a long time.

A long time and no time at all.

As if someone had been standing outside his room pressing it over and over and over again, unwilling or unable to recognize the obvious in his refusal to answer.

He could think of only one who would dare to plague him so.

He could picture her there, leaning into the bell, laughing.

The way she would  _smile._

The way she would _laugh_.

If he did not answer, that noise might well continue throughout the night.

Might never stop at all.

She would never tire of the game, not when she knew she had a captive audience to torment.

And he had no doubt that she knew he was there.

Sometimes he thought her true talent must lie in the realm of foresight.

Or perhaps she simply had a keen nose for misery.

It would please her to imagine him curled on the bed with a pillow crammed over his head to muffle the sound, making a futile attempt to ignore her summons equally as well as it would please her to be permitted to enter his sanctuary so she might examine the state of him, to see the way their deaths weighed upon him, to observe the depths of his despair with eager eyes and that wide and terrible smile.

He could still feel her fingers against the back of his hands, pressing his fingers into the damp, freshly churned earth of the garden.

How warm her breath had been against his ear as she’d kissed his cheek and whispered, “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

The way she’d licked the sweat from his brow.

The way she’d laughed when he had scrambled back away from her, face hot and stomach sour.

He shuddered, as sympathetic bile rose to burn the back of his throat at the memory.

Slowly, regretfully, he dragged his sore, protesting body from the bed and stumbled to the door, yanking it open viciously to glare into the corridor beyond.

It wasn’t her.

Somehow he had never imagined that someone else might be ringing his bell.

That anyone else would care to seek him out.

And yet….

Kazuichi stumbled, falling in against him when he threw the door wide as if he’d been leaning the whole of his weight upon it, as if it had never occurred to him that the incessant ringing of that bell might actually summon a presence from within.

He reeked of some strong liquor that made his breath foul as the mist that wreathed the lowest levels of hell and his skin clammy and unpleasant to the touch. The scent was sharp and pungent enough to make him wince, but it would be worse by far for the Devas whose senses were far more acute than his own.

...would have been.

Every time he realized he would never feel the cut of their claws again it was like a physical blow even after weeks without the familiar comfort of their presence.

It was a wound that time would never truly close.

It made him falter.

Made him  _ache_.

Made him weak.

Kazuichi’s hands caught his weight, curling around his arms, strangely steadying even as they careened into the doorframe.

“Sorry,” Kazuichi rasped, his voice rough as if he hadn’t spoken to anyone for days. And perhaps he hadn’t. When he was focused on his work he had sometimes seemed to forget everyone and everything beyond it and it had been days since he’d caught even a glimpse of him moving through the halls.

Not that he had been looking.

“I should’ve… sorry, she told me what happened… and I just… messed up. I should’ve been there,  _here_ , I should’ve…  _sorry_.”

None of his words made sense, fragmented and slurred as though Kazuichi's thoughts were pages scattered by a foul and bitter wind leaving him to piece together what remained, to find structure and form within the chaos of destruction.

He could almost hear the echo of her laughter in the silence of the hall.

As if he would not have known his presence to be her doing even without that muttered confirmation.

Humans were terrible.

Terrible and pointless and cruel.

She more than most.

But it mattered little.

For the She-Wolf was not entirely human.

She was better and worse, a harbinger of destruction and an agent of chaos, a creature of immense darkness traveling a forbidden road that could lead only to despair.

If she had sent Kazuichi to his door, hard-won experience told him well enough that there would be only further rejection and misery come morning.

After all, all that was left to connect them now was the accord they had struck so long ago since the bonds of companionship had been broken.

It would be a simple matter for him to fall back into old habits, to simply forget all that had come before and use this poisonous balm to salve his wounds for a night. It would not be the first time he had fallen into that trap and he knew from experience the searing depths of their despair would be all the deeper for the loss of whatever brief fanciful illusions of intimacy they allowed to rule the night.

Nothing between them would be changed by a single night, not by a clumsy embrace or a drunken apology or his own acceptance of either or both.

Nothing could alter the losses he had suffered nor whatever had driven Kazuichi into the bottle that made his limbs loose and his tears fall so freely.

The remembered sting of rejection might seem insignificant when matched against the agony of all that had come after, but it had created a wall between them that had made their exchanges of the past few months tense and stilted and his tattered pride would never allow him to forget that feeling and the weakness that had caused it even had he wished it. 

Come morning they would once more be left alone to the tender mercies of their own personal tragedies.

But in that moment- brief though it was- morning seemed a long way off and the night far too long and dark to be weathered alone.

His world was full of shadows and he had had more than his fill of loneliness.

"What would you have of me?” he murmured, yielding to the inevitability of devastation. “I am still bound by my word to aid you as you have aided me.”

If he were surprised by his words he gave no sign but the length of his silence as he stumbled back to look at him with bleary eyes gone red and bloodshot from too much drink and too little sleep.

“Yeah, okay, c’mon,” he slurred, catching clumsily at his hand to pull him along with him as he turned to fumble his way down the dim lit hall. “I'm gonna show you something.”

He let him lead him from his room, half-dressed and shivering in boxer briefs and a t-shirt, the comforting weight of the scarf wound around his throat a poor shield against the chill of the night as he was led through the quiet halls of Hope’s Peak.

Kazuichi’s hand was sweaty where his fingers were locked around his own and the tiles were cold beneath his bare feet as they stumbled together through the deserted halls. Outside of the gooseflesh that broke across the surface of his skin in answer to the chill of winter and the pain of cold and tiny rocks against his soles, he remembered little of the journey as Kazuichi led him from one hall to the next, outside into the courtyard and around through the garden to a door tucked between two hedges.

His captured hand was finally released so that Kazuichi could use both hands to fumble a passkey from one of his many pockets and press it against the door sensor as he tapped a code into a panel beside it.

There was a soft beep and a click as the door swung open and he was ushered inside by the press of shaking hands against his back into a hallway even more dimly lit than the world outside, made darker still as the door swung shut and latched noisily behind them, a series of beeps and clicks no doubt signaling the reengagement of the lock. 

“C'mon,” Kazuichi muttered, catching his hand again and leading him through the darkness as his eyes adjusted slowly to the red emergency lights that were the only source of illumination. “Quick, before someone sees us.”

He fell silent again as they turned down one hallway after another, finally coming to a stop before a door that looked no different than any of the doors that had come before. There was an engraved plaque beside it and when he squinted and leaned in close to it he could just barely make out the words:

 **Miaya Gekkogahara  
** Ultimate Therapist

And then beneath that- in tiny print he had to trace with his fingers to read:  _By Referral Only._

Beside him Kazuichi held a batch of jangling keys up towards the red light over the door, fiddling through it for long moments before offering a soft grunt of satisfaction as he found the one he was looking for.

The door swung open with an audible creak once- after several interminable moments of fumbling- he'd finally managed to get the key in the lock. Kazuichi shoved him urgently into the darkness of the room beyond, “Get in there already.”

The inside of the room was stiflingly warm after the chill of the halls and the grounds between and he found himself shivering harder as Kazuichi pulled the door closed behind them with a snap that made him flinch.

There were no windows so the room was lit only by a weak, wavering green light that made even the mundane shape of furniture seem strange and unearthly as if they were underwater.

“See that?” Kazuichi murmured, breath blowing warm against his ear, making him startle again with the sudden change in proximity.

No matter what had passed between them, his protections always seemed to falter when he was near, to weaken and yield to his presence, to allow him a closeness they would have allowed no other. Hands dusting across his arms, fingers finding and curling against his waist as his body pressed in close behind him, crowding him forward towards the source of that weak ambient light. “It’s one of mine.”

It is a machine, that much he can tell even in the dark, large and artfully proportioned, a great curved behemoth that dominated the room in which it rested. It seemed almost alive, humming and clicking, covered in a dozen blinking lights and its operation filling the space with a content buzzing sound like that of a thousand bees at work in a hive.

Whatever manner of technological beast it was, Kazuichi's creation glowed an eerie, pulsing, sickly green at its heart, color dulled by dark glass and filled with deep shadows that ebbed and flowed like ocean waves within its mysterious depths.

“Do you see it?” His voice was soft, as if did not truly wish him to hear the question or perhaps as if he is afraid of whatever answer he might offer. “I think they put someone in there.”

He says the last so softly that for long moments, Gundham finds himself unable to respond, certain he must have simply imagined them murmured as they'd been against his ear, warm breath stirring hair that had gone limb and heavy after too long without proper cleaning.

The words were whispered once more, the brush of his lips against the shell of his ear making him shiver, “I think they put someone in there.”

He wasn't certain what he was meant to say in response or if he was meant to say anything at all, but the longer he stares into the abyss, the more certain he is that he can see a form lying motionless within the depths, unmoved by the flow of liquid shadow around it.

“You see it too, right?”

Kazu’s fidgeting fingers danced over his sides, slipped beneath his shirt to trace along the scars there.

A shiver shuddered up his spine and he found himself sagging back against him, leaning into that touch.

“Yes,” he whispered finally, as if whatever lay within the tank were a creature he feared to waken.

A gust of breath blew warm and foul across his cheek, almost but not quite a chuckle of relief, “Oh man, I thought I was going crazy. Or maybe I just hoped I was, I don't know.”

“What is this infernal device?”

“Netaro. I built it, well, I mean  _part_ of it. They put in a lot of extra stuff, but I designed all the major systems. Like there's this, uh, circu-no it's uh, circulator? Circulating? Whatever it moves the special liquid and there's this whole series of like filters and stuff? So, it keeps it, uh, clean so like you can totally pee in there and it's fine." He waved his hand vaguely towards the device. "Supposed to be like one of those sensory depri-whatever tanks, only for like, uh, what's it called? When you can use it for an extra long time? There's a word for it. Like... I don't know, something.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. Sometimes I forget stuff-"

"Not that. Why did they contract you to build it?"

"Oh, uh, yeah, don't know that either, I mean, they don’t really tell me anything much about what they’re gonna do with this stuff.”

He supposed that much was true.

He had aided Kazuichi in the construction of a number of devices throughout the duration of their partnership and he recalled Kazuichi often complaining about the sparse nature of the specifications they'd provided.

“I wonder how long he’s been in there. Told 'em they couldn’t leave anyone in for more than a week, but I keep... I keep coming back to check and there's always somebody...” He trailed off frowning as he leaned in closer and spread the palm of his free hand over the glass. “They volunteered, right?”

“Right,” he echoed, though he was not certain.

He would not assume any horror to be beyond the capacity of the filthy humans that ran that corruptible institution

“Yeah, yeah, I mean, that’s what I figured. They wouldn't... but still… it’s freaky, right?”

“Yes.”

And it was.

Though he could not summon the will to care for the plight of a single human locked in a glowing box.

"But what if I'm wrong, huh?"

He blinked and he was sitting on the floor of the beach house once more, ice cream melting sticky warm across his fingers and the fading light a vivid orange where it lay across the walls and floor. 

His chest ached and his mouth tasted of bile, but he could not quite remember why.

"What if I didn't build them," the fiend continued, unperturbed by his confusion. "I mean... what if I just... what if I just... just thought I did and I messed up when I was working on them? Or when I was moving them? What if I don't really know anything and I… what if I really messed something up and we just don’t know yet? What if I... what if I killed you? All of you? I mean… I _think_ I got everything set up and working right, I think I get how it's all supposed to work, but what if I'm wrong? What if I just messed it up? I mean, what the fuck do I know about life support systems and waste disposal units and self-sustaining, closed filtration whatever-the-crap those things are, huh? I build freaking _robots_ , and not like _good_ robots either. Just kind of little crappy ones that aren't much better than toys. I fix  _cars_ , I'm not… what if I screwed it up? I screw everything up!”

He stared at the creature, at it's obvious distress, but could find nothing to say. 

It wasn't real.

None of this....

His chest ached and his head buzzed unpleasantly.

He was... was... wa....  
  
"Hey, you okay?" It... he... it asked as it frowned, leaning forward as if he needed to be close in order to see him clearly. "You look kinda..." 

A hand landed against his face, cold enough to make him shudder, fingertips tracing across his cheekbone as the fiend leaned in to stare at him from inches away as if that might allow him to be seen more clearly.

He had reeked of boy and sweat and sand and faintly of burnt oil. It should have been off-putting, but it was surprised to find it was... comfortable, almost pleasant, like an old sweater made soft by the ruin of time.

His fingers were rough, skin calloused and marked with scars and the air he breathed tasted like longing and broken promises.

He...

He was....

They were already gone.

Their bodies stiff where they lay twisted within their cages, huddled together or sprawled still twitching across the floor of his room. There was a terrible crunch as he trod upon one in his hurry to reach the Devas where they lay sprawled upon his bed.

He should never have left them there.

Should never have parted from them even for a moment.

_Fool._

He brushed tentative, trembling fingers over their coarse fur. Their bodies were still warm beneath his fingertips, their eyes cast wide and limbs akimbo. Theirs had been a death both sudden and painful, he could see it in the frozen stretch of those limbs, in the way their mouths gapped, in how their eyes bulged wide frozen still in the agony of their last moments. 

They were beyond saving before he had arrived, long before he could gather them to his chest, before he could cradle them in trembling hands and whisper them to their rest.

They were gone.

They were all  _gone_.

He knelt in a sea of death, all his efforts dashed against the rocks, all that he had ever dared love torn asunder.

He should move.

Should check the others, should at least make an attempt to find survivors amongst the corpses half-buried by the shavings kicked apart by tiny flailing limbs.

Yet he could not.

It seemed impossible that any might survive what the Devas could not.

It was as if he to were frozen in time, cursed to stillness as he felt the last vestiges of warmth fade against his fingertips, until even the memory of life seemed little more than a lie.

And even then he could not bring himself to move, as if by setting them aside he would be conceding defeat, admitting that it was over and committing them permanently to eternal slumber.

He remembered telling Kazuichi ages ago that death was a natural consequence of life.

He had thought himself prepared to face those losses when they came.

And yet….

Perhaps it was different when death came by your own hand.

Perhaps he had simply never known true guilt.

Never truly understood loss at all and his words in that dark room all those months ago had been nothing but the cheap offerings of a ignorant fool.

The world was dark and everything seemed to sway around him.

Distantly he could hear someone mumbling, syllables soft and hurried and nothing distinct amongst them.

The entire back of his body feels as if its been scrapped raw, but even that was difficult to focus on when the vicious ache of loss lingered in his chest and the phantom bristle of fur was still rough against his palm.

The world continued to shift precariously around him and someone moaned, long and low, a terrible keening shriek of agony that echoed within him as the first tears spilled warm from his shuttered eyes.

And then suddenly it stopped.

Everything stopped and there was a brief, blissful moment where all was still and silent, and it was in that moment that the cold, agonizing waters of hell rained down upon him like full body slap.

He was pretty sure he screamed as he floundered back across the slippery tile to escape that reach of that freezing cascade.

His limbs felt heavy and clumsy and slow and when the flow of water ceased as abruptly as it had begun, he found himself panting in the aftermath, propped up on aching arms, squinting at the creature kneeling before him as rage ignited hot and bright and sudden in his chest.

“You….” He growled, fingers curling painfully against the tile.

Instead of cowering before his rage as any other sensible creature might have, the foul beast just knelt there grinning at him, hair plastered wet and dripping against his…  _its_  skull, damp t-shirt clinging to its shoulders, its hand still lingering on the handle as if it might turn it back on again at any moment.

"Hey," it called, its eyes crinkling as its smile widened even further. "Welcome back."

He would have cursed him to ash if he’d thought there was a chance he’d have been able to gather his thoughts enough to construct a semi-decent circle.

As it stood, it would have a better chance at success if he simply smacked the smile off its smug, ridiculous face.

Or he would have if he’d thought he could reach the grinning demon without slipping and falling flat on his face.

“Sorry about that,” the fiend continued, not sounding as if it felt even the tiniest  _smidgeon_  of remorse for its actions. “Whew, that water is  _really_  cold, huh?”

There were a dozen questions swirling about within him, but the one that ultimately spilled from his lips was simple: “Why?”

It had the gaul to look abashed, as if the question made it so discomforted that it couldn’t even _look_ at him when answering, “Well, I mean… you just… you looked like you were having a seizure or something and it… I mean….”

He frowned as it trailed off into silence and finally allowed himself the luxury of taking the time to survey his surroundings.

They were in the shower room.

The shower room where it had apparently dragged him, if the fire across his back were any indication, because it thought he was….

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because when it glanced back up at him it instantly threw up its hands, exasperated, “ _Shut up,_ okay? Just shut up. It worked, didn’t it?! I mean… you were all… and now you’re _fine_ , you're totally fine, right? So just... just…  _shut up_! Whatever, fine, okay, it was stupid, I  _know_  it was stupid. But I mean, what was I _supposed_ to do? I don’t… I mean, I had to do  _something_. I mean, I… I….”

He was not prepared for tears.

Nor was he properly braced to withstand the full-force collision as the fiend slammed into him in a tangle of warm, slippery limbs that seemed everywhere at once, all around him and clinging to him as its weight carried them both backwards to land in an awkward, pained heap against the shower wall.

“Unhand me, fiend,” he managed, shoving weakly at his...

Shoulder?

Knee?

He wasn’t quite certain, everything seemed strangely jumbled and unreal and he... he was....

Ragged nails scrapped across his bare flesh, cold as the frozen tundra, leaving trails of ice across his back, his shoulders, bringing little flashes of pain flaring to life where they caught against the wounds that peppered his body as they sought a purchase they never seemed to find.

It felt….

He felt….

They were sitting on the floor in the main room of the beach house.

His head hurt. 

It rambled on, speaking as if there had never been a break in the conversation, as if they hadn't been in the shower room, sprawled together across the floor, only a moment before.

The ice cream was melting, cool sludge oozing over his fingers and thighs as he clutched the damp container too tightly. 

The room was warm.

 _Too_ warm.

Sweat rolled up his back, ignoring gravity as if it didn't fully exist in that cursed place.

“Sorry, I… I messed up," the demon at his side offered, tugging at his knit cap, cheeks flushed, a sheen of sweat standing out prominently across his brow. "I should’ve… I’ve been thinking about it, you know? I've been working on the pods by myself mostly so I… I've had a lot of time to think about stuff, because if I don't think about _something_  other than how bad I'm probably messing up, I’m pretty sure I’d just totally lose it, you know? So, I keep… I keep thinking about  _you_. You and Nidai and everything and I… I should’ve  _done_  something back then _."_

"Done something?" He echoed, his thoughts felt slow, sluggish.

There was something wrong, something off, but he couldn't seem to remember what that something was, can't begin to make sense of the creature's quiet words.

"Yeah, I mean I could’ve taken stuff apart and used it to build something that would get us out of there or just… I don't know, something _._  I should have done _something_. And I didn’t even  _try_. I kept thinking Hinata would or maybe someone else would figure something out. That it’d be fine, because someone else would take care of it, you know? And I guess you  _did_ , but… it shouldn't have been like that. If I'd just… done something then maybe... I never helped, you know? Not with any of it. I mean, even Mikan… she was at least  _tried_  to help, you know? Even  _Komaeda._  I mean, everything he did was kind of totally terrible, but I think… I think maybe he thought it was… helping, you know? But I never did  _anything_. Not really. I built a freaking video walkie talkie and that... all I ever did was make things _worse._ That's all I ever did and I survived, I got out. It’s not really fair, is it?”

Fair?

“Nothing in life is truly fair,” he replied, frowning. 

“I still… I still should have done  _something_. I could have at least stopped you from-"

He could not stopper the laughter that bubbled up in his throat, that burst forth from lips, cruel and incredulous, though it felt like it was coming from somewhere else, someone else, like he was merely a conduit, a cursed vessel that existed purely to give that ridicule voice, " _Fool._ Do you truly think  _you_  could have stopped  _me_? I am Tanaka the Forbidden, no simple demon of the lower realms could stand in my path and survive!"

This he knew.

This he....

The decision to enter the Final Dead Room had been a simple one in the end.

His limbs had already been heavy, a sure testament to the toll their captivity had already taken upon his body. As one who had honed his skills within the cursed pits of the darkest bowels of the seven hells he knew well the limits of his imperfect form. He was, after all, one who had measured his speed against the lunge of a thousand deadly vipers, one who had decimated the forces of a hundred demon lords in his quest to liberate the hounds that bayed within their black iron prisons in the depths of Hades. He knew all too well that his body would not be reduced to such a state by a mere day without food nor would that weak physical exertion have been near enough to weaken so significantly the body his efforts had achieved. Surely there was some more nefarious power at work to have rendered his limbs so weak, to have allowed his mind to become such a slow, plodding, useless thing. He could practically feel the forces of atrophy at work during the second day as he found himself staring into space for long moments and missing large portions of the conversations that took place around him with greater frequency.

Surely not enough time had passed for hunger to have had such a dramatic impact and yet the evidence seemed to mock his conception of what his body was capable of enduring. And not just his. It might have been another matter if only he were in true danger, but already he could see the gleam of the Devas fur had begun to dull and while he might be able to survive for weeks without food, they most certainly could not. He would allow them to feast upon his rotting corpse before he would allow fate to conspire to take them from him in such a manner. They were beings meant to perish in glorious battle or at the end of long lives surrounded by their terrible plethora of offspring. He would not allow them to merely wither away.

He had sent them to search out an exit when they’d first awoken, but even they- with all their many gifts- had been powerless to escape that concrete prison. They had searched every inch, every room and hall, had even burrowed into the depths of the elevator shaft, but a better understanding of the shape of the place had done little to put an end to their imprisonment within it.

There had been only one area their magnificent and deadly forms had been unable to penetrate.

And so as they neared the end of the second day, he had decided to risk its unknown dangers himself.

All the signs made it clear to him that a dreadful curse had been laid upon that tiresome house of the damned to which they had been confined. It was the only explanation for why his body had been so enfeebled, why the souls of his companions were so easily persuaded from the idea of survival to the inevitability of surrender unto death.

It wasn’t that he feared his inevitable end.

No, death would come for them all in time, but he would not be one to go quietly, to submit meekly to its uncaring judgement, to death's cold embrace.

No.

He would never be so weak.

“Wake my Dark Devas of Destruction,” he’d murmured, rousing them from their slumber and coaxing them from where they lay curled upon the bedding he had shredded and laid out to catch their foul leavings. “We shall use our wits to battle the unholy forces that would condemn us to die by inches in this despicable place. Better we should die attempting to free ourselves from these bonds than allow fate to hold us captive. Come, my most trusted companions, there is work that must be done and if I fail you shall at least have a mighty feast with which to fill your bellies as I know you will prove yourselves clever and spry enough to survive whatever horrors might befall me. Let us charge into the unknown and face whatever dangers wait together.”

Had he doubted his choice, he would only have had to see the sluggishness with which they honored his command to know that he had made the correct decision.

Their prison had been silent around him as he’d slipped from his room and down the stairs to find the Final Dead Room waiting for him.

The door handle had felt cool as relief beneath his fingertips and he....

" _Shut up_ ," the fiend shrieked, summoning him from the flow of memory back to the of the present; the cool of the door handle fading to the barely there chill of the soggy container still clutched in his hand. "I'm not- I could've...."

"Hardly," he scoffed, falling easily back into that preposterous argument. "You were only human. No better nor worse than your peers. If you had attempted to stop me, you would have become my victim in his place and it would have been you that died and I...."

"No way, I'd have stopped you and if I couldn't... I totally could have killed you."

"And how do you believe you would have managed that?"

"I would have figured something out. I can do stuff! Don't freaking look down on me! The only reason you managed to kill _him_ was because that stupid bear put that bullshit button on the back of his neck."

He scoffed, the sound as rough and ugly as the feeling growing in his chest, "You said it yourself: you have always relied on others to save you. What could  _you_  have possibly done on your own?"

"Says the guy laying on the ground with melty ice cream all over his  _balls_."

"A cheap shot."

Kazuichi gave an indignant squawk, throwing his hands in the air before jabbing a finger at him in accusation, "You know what? I take it _back_. I'm _not_ freaking _sorry_. I'm not sorry I didn't stop you and I'm not sorry that I freaking  _kicked_  you either, you freaking  _deserved_  it."

"At last you show your true colors, fiend," he crowed triumphantly.

"Oh, go to _hell_ ," he... _it_ sprang to its feet, pacing the room in quick, stuttering steps. "You think I like dreaming about you like this? Feeling like this? You think this is _fun_ for me? Because it _sucks_. It _sucks_ and you _suck_ and I don't get it! I don't get what I would have seen in you that we... UGH! You know, whatever. Whatever! You're the freaking _worst_ and you always were because you didn't even _care_. You think you were saving us? You were just being freaking  _selfish_. You only ever cared about yourself. And you made her  _cry._  You made _everyone_ freaking _cry_ , but you made her cry the most. Heck, she’s  _still_ probably crying over you. I mean, _c’mon_ , she’s sleeping in your room like-  _I don’t know_ \- like she wants to be the first person you see when you wake up or something. And it pisses me off! It pisses me off, because you don’t  _deserve_  Miss Sonia’s tears! Or mine. Or anyone's! You selfish, stupid _jerk_!”

The anguish on his face felt like the nails of desperate rats burrowing through his flesh to escape some terrible fate. 

Not his.

Its.

Because he wasn't real.

 _It_  wasn’t real.

None of it.

_Not. Real._

It was just an act.

Just….

“I made it for you,” his sharp teeth gleamed in the bright light of the hall as he reached up and tapped a hand proudly against the plastic tubing that had been strapped along the length of the hallway. “Or, um, well, for them really. I got special permission from the principal and everything. This way nobody can give you a bad time about them being out and about all they want and you don’t have to worry about anyone stepping on them or-“

“No one could step upon the Devas without meeting a gruesome and well-deserved fate,” he broke in sharply, defensively, shoulders hunching as Jum-P nuzzled sleepily against the back of his neck.

“Oh, um, yeah,  _yeah_ , I mean,  _obviously_ , but this way you don’t have to worry about all that… uh, clean up or whatever... right?”

He nodded slowly, allowing that the argument had merit. He’d never enjoyed having to scrub the spill of blood from the cursed floors of Hope’s Peak. The grouting was far too uneven between the tiles and he’d spent far too many long hours worrying a sponge against those unsightly crevices to be eager to do so again.

“You... have seen fit to give them unlimited access?”

“Oh, yeah, I mean, ‘course! They can’t go into the principal’s office or the therapist’s room like  _officially_ , but I could probably make a workaround once I get the ventilation system up and running. I mean, it’s not like it would be that hard to circumvent if I worked their ventilation system in with the school’s, ya know? I mean, I designed both of them so… I know where everything connects. They probably wouldn't even know I'd done it unless I told 'em,” he shifted from foot to foot, fidgeting with his hat, worrying at the zipper on his coveralls, chewing at his fingernails.

Nervous.

He was always so nervous now, as if that exploding rocket had stolen away the ground upon which his confidence had been built leaving only uncertainty and the compulsive need for approval to fill the void it had left behind.

“So, uh, what do you think? I mean, they don’t  _have_  to use it if they don’t wanna, I mean… oh  _man_ , I should have asked first, huh? I mean, sure, I wanted it to be a surprise and all, but maybe that was a bad idea. Maybe I should have… what if you don’t want them to be all cooped up like that? Are the tubes too small? I tried to get a measurement on Cham-P ‘cause he’s the biggest, but he kept biting me so I mostly had to  _guess_  and I don’t know if I got it quite right, so…  _crap_ , this is… oh  _man_ , did I….”

“It’s splendid,” he murmured, fingers curling into fists at his sides as his quiet words effectively silenced the stream of anxious babble.

Though those words did no justice to the feeling swelling in his chest.

For him.

He had done this for  _him_ , for  _them_ , unasked.

No one had ever….

This was….

Kazuichi’s face flushed pink, and a relieved burst of laughter eased from his chest as he tugged at his hat, pulling it this way and that, “Oh, uh, good. I’m glad you… uh... yeah, I….” He broke off, rocking back and forth, toe to heel and back again, before adding, “I mean, it’s not totally done yet,  _obviously_. I can make it better and I was thinking of maybe putting in some like trick pipes and buttons and stuff to make it more interesting for them. I’ve got some ideas, but I didn’t wanna install anything that was gonna give them trouble so I thought maybe you could take a look at the designs and let me know, so... I… I mean, I know it’s a little early, but I just… I wanted to… I mean, um, it's your birthday present.”

Birthday.

The She-Cat must have told him though he still did not know how she had managed to procure such obscure knowledge much less why she had been inclined to do so or why she would have seen fit to share such a fact with Kazuichi when they rarely spoke except in passing.

The day of his birth had never before been occasion for celebration and the idea that he was being given such a gift to honor it was... discomforting.

His smile was already wilting around the edges once more, the grasping talons of insecurity already seeking and finding purchase in his expression once more. “Sorry, I know it’s not… I mean, I had to get you  _something_ , right? I mean you're kind of my, um, you’re kind of like my only friend and I… I’m sorry if this isn’t… any good. I guess I could get you something else, maybe, but I don’t really… I mean, most of my money goes home and to living expenses and parts and stuff and I just thought….”

Kazuichi's lips were warm and rough beneath his fingers as he pressed his hand against his mouth to stop the seemingly endless flow of words. He couldn’t think with so much noise, couldn’t make sense of all the information he had been given, not when every fragment of his being felt tight, stretched thin as a dam on the verge of bursting.

His eyes were bright and wide, shining with hope or anticipation or dread or some combination of them all, but he remained still, silent, behind the gentle press of his hand, waiting.

Waiting.

“It is most agreeable.”

He glanced away, clearing his throat, but he could still feel the warmth in his own cheeks and the lift of Kazuichi's lips beneath the press of his fingertips.

It was an unprecedented offering.

Ane he was...

The first time he’d seen him, walking through the school’s gate- long before they’d ever spoken, long before he’d known his name- he’d thought of Dendrobatids.

His hair had been bright as a warning in the morning sun.

A warning to stay well away.

Perhaps he should have heeded that warning.

Perhaps he was glad he had not.

“Thank you,” he murmured finally, quiet and solemn and uncertain which gift he was thanking him for.

He let his hand fall away to hang limp at his side once more.

Something like a laugh slid free of Kazuichi’s lips as he slumped forward against him, his forehead crashing in against his shoulder as if those words had weakened him somehow, had cut whatever strings had kept him standing. Hands curled into fists pressed against his back in an embrace he couldn’t bring himself to fight or accept.

“You’re welcome,” he’d replied, his voice thick and heavy with emotion. "Happy Birthday."

It was in that moment that he realized he was....

The water was cold again, but this time he did not flee from the chill.

Instead he let it wash over him as he lay like a stone beneath it as if it might wash him clean of that memory that had felt like revelation and left a sour taste in his mouth.

Kazuichi was lying beside him, fingers petting frantically against his face, alternately shielding him from the water’s fall and letting the too warm water cascade across his already frozen skin.

“Hey, hi,” his smile was relieved and his fingers trembled against his cheek. “You’re here, right? You’re back?”

“Where would I go?” He asked, coughing weakly.

It hurt to speak.

It hurt to _breathe_.

Kazuichi’s grin wilted at the edges like a poorly laid mask peeling away.

“I don’t know,” he replied, shrugging helplessly. “For a second it seemed like I was somewhere else, like I...

"I think I killed him.”

He whispered the words into the warm damp shower air as if they were supposed to mean something, as if he were supposed to have an absolution prepared for those words that reeked of the confessional.

His eyes were dark, beseeching, “I just… it wasn’t even… it wasn't even _hard_. Killing someone should be... shouldn't it be harder than that? Than just making a couple of tweaks to a stupid machine and then just... sitting back and watching it happen? It barely took five minutes. He was  _helpless,_ helpless and I… he was gonna ruin everything and so I….

“Crap.”

He choked on a sob, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth to muffle it, his eyes and face reddening as the first tears spilled down over his cheeks, blending with the water that soaked them both. "I don't want to do this anymore."

He reached out to touch his crumpled face and found himself lying on the floor watching the light fade around him, dry and shivering beneath the chill of falling night. 

The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead.

The ice cream container was gone - if it had ever been there at all - and he was alone.

He was....

“Stupid shower’s busted and this tool kit is shit,” Kazuichi grumbled, a cheap plastic tool kit clutched in one hand as he shot him a furtive, bloodshot glance through the filthy ruin of his hair.

It was as dark and dull as the rest of him. 

He had not fared well during their time apart.

“I believe that was the point,” he replied, though he knew the comment required no response. 

“Yeah, I  _know_ ,  _thanks._  Like it really even mattered in the end. Stupid jerks didn't even  _try_  to take it apart. To take  _anything_  apart. She was totally right. We could have left them a key and a get out of jail free card and they still wouldn't have even bothered to try and use them.  _Fuck!_  What is _wrong_ with this thing?!”

“It is not yet morning.” 

Kazuichi snorted, casting the kit down to clatter across the tile as he huffed an irritated sigh, “Right, yeah, of course. I totally forgot about that stupid nighttime rule. That’s freaking great. That's just  _great_.”

He spun about and threw his back to the shower wall, sliding down to sit upon the floor. His clothes were dark with drying blood, bits of gore and other filth stuck to his coveralls and shirt, grotesque souvenirs of his time below.

He reeked of decay and the ripe stench of one who had gone far too long without bothering to cleanse the grime from his body, but he did not hesitate to cross the tiny room and drop down to sit beside him anyway.

The scent of the boy he'd been had never bothered him and the stench of the man he had become was a familiar comfort. The copper scent of blood and the wet garbage stench of decay was not enough to turn him from his course.

“She'd have found all this hilarious, you know," Kazuichi offered with a half-hearted laugh. "Us all being here. Tsumiki’s stupid transplant plan, Miharu's photo shoot, even the fact that Hanamura wants to cook the leftovers. She’d have laughed herself sick about all of it.”

He nodded solemn agreement.

“Surprised you even showed. Weren't you in like New Zealand or Australia or something? How'd you even get back here? I thought they had Japan on lockdown or something.”

“There are ways. Paths open only to the wretched and depraved, to those who have sacrificed their very souls for the power to walk the paths between worlds.”

“Yeah, okay," he replied, his expression souring. "I get it, you don’t wanna tell me, it's fine. So, when do you leave?”

He had always been quick to understand, to decipher his words and weave the threads of story he offered into a tapestry they both could read.

“I shall not linger past the setting of the sun. Such journeys are best undertaken at twilight.”

Kazuichi snorted, shaking his head, “Yeah, I guess there's no point in sticking around, huh? Why'd you even bother coming in the first place?”

His laughter was bitter and desolate as the world they'd turned to ash and blood and dust.

He didn't have an answer for that.

He could say he came to mourn her, to glimpse her formidable body laid low by her own base desires, to assure himself of her end, but that would be a lie. When he had left the rest to their games and petty intrigues, she had become a distant concern, white teeth and a laugh that echoed through his mind always, but if not for that broadcast he might have forgotten her face altogether. His memory of her drowned beneath the waters of hate and rage and the horrors of the war he has grown tired of fighting. 

“I wished to see the answer she had found for myself,” he lied finally, leaving the truth- whatever it might have been- to rot in the back of his mind, undiscovered. His reasons mattered little.

“Answer, huh?” Kazuchi shook his head, blowing lank strands of faded pink hair from his face. “She committed freaking suicide by committee, Gundham. There aren't any answers here, only  _despair_. That’s all there ever was.”

“Since that was all she ever truly cared for, perhaps that was answer enough for her."

“Yeah, maybe. Who knows? It's not like it even matters now. She’s gone. She's gone and we’re still… what do we even do now? Are just going to surrender or what?"

He chuckled at the thought, “Submit? To  _them_? Despair has been my banner, but it was never my true cause, she was not what drove me so her death changes nothing. Not for me. This war will not be stopped simply because Enoshima Junko is no longer present to fan the flames of conflict. That which has been wrought will not be so easily put aside or forgotten. Sins are not so easily forgiven and the hope her death will bring will inspire only greater despair. Even in death, the dominoes she has tipped will continue to fall. To provoke those who would walk the path she has tread to start anew again and again. They have put humanity on a path towards the inevitability of destruction. She has given them an excuse to surrender to their darkest urges, to revel in their despair and rage and hate. They will not so easily be turned aside by something so minor as the death of a figurehead whose name will one day be forgotten.”

“Yeah,” Kazuichi murmured, leaning his head back against the wall with a resounding crack. “That sounds about right.” 

He woke to hands on his face, thumbs grinding against his cheekbones and the rush of breath like fire scorching against the prickling cold of his lips. Dark eyes staring at him- pleading with him- from inches away.

Dark….

Had they always been so?

"Gundham?" Kazuichi asked, voice soft and trembling, water still raining down upon them both, tiles slick beneath his body.

The shower room was full of shadows.

It felt as if he'd been dreaming or perhaps that he still was.

He looked so much older than he had on the island. His hair dark where it clung to his face, his eyes awash with shadows.

"You okay?"

It might be a form of mockery, but his expression was....

“I was responsible for the death of hundreds,” he murmured, the words came slowly, reluctantly as warm hands stroked down his bare arms and a cool forehead touched down to rest tentatively against his own, dark hair falling forward to shield them both from the growing darkness. “Both beast and man alike were laid to waste at my command, their blood soaking the field of battle, their souls sacrificed to her dream of a world dripping with despair. We were the dismal doom of all who crossed our paths, lost in our pursuit of something greater than ourselves, the desire to make all the world feel as we had felt, to be as we were, and in great part we succeeded. When she was there, she fanned the flames within us, gave us drive and purpose. Without her… there was only despair and despair was never enough to fill the void within. Even if I wished to, I could no more absolve you of your transgressions than you could free me from the heavy burden of my sins.”

“Is that true?" Kazuichi asked, his voice hushed as if he were afraid to speak too loudly. "Or do I just….”

“It is what I remember,” he answered quickly, pulling away to gather the scattered remnants of his pride around him like a cloak. He scooted back across the cool tiles, far enough that they were no longer touching. He gathered his knees up against his chest and rested his head atop them. His skin was cold and what the constant pain of his wounds was, for the moment, a distant afterthought. “I do not know what is true anymore than I know what is false. My memories are a bowl of jagged glass, sharp enough to rend flesh, offering only the barest glimpses of what might have been. The world I see reflected there is both foreign and familiar and I know not what I should believe.”

“Yeah,” Kazuichi replied, nodding quickly, dashing damp hands across his cheeks. “Yeah, it’s like that. It’s like… just… bits and pieces and none of it really fits together. And it isn't… I thought it'd all be… awful, you know? Like it was supposed to be... we were supposed to be monsters. And I mean a lot of it is- a  _lot_  of it- but… there's all that other stuff too. Like you. Like...  _you know_.”

Did he know?

Did he….

Grasping hands and the hum and grind of machinery, heat and building pressure, over him, inside him. The pleasure they seek is quick and filthy, grease-stained hands and sweat-slick skin and never bothering to take the time to disrobe. Later his armor would reek of sex and burnt oil, but it would remind him that those moments were real- that  _he_  was real- and knowing would sooth the restless beast within him, would dull the edge of the moments between when there was only darkness and death and death and death and  _death_.

The room - his life - was too quiet without them.

His neck was cold and his heart was colder and he had never been good at being alone.

Everything he touched withered and died.

Those brief interludes and the relief they provided often seemed barely worth the effort and yet still they would find each other again and again, making good on a pact that was a mere shadow of the bond it had once seemed to be.

It was barely better than being alone, than finding release beneath the brisk work of his own hands, but it was still... _something_.

A single thread in the darkness of their labyrinth of despair.

 _Soon_ , he told himself every time, _soon_ he would find the will to leave that last human attachment behind and embrace his demonic heritage in full, surrender himself completely to his greater purpose, to the cause he intended to dedicate the reminder of his time on this plane of existence to.

Soon he would release him from his thrall.

Leave him to find whatever peace he might in what little time was left to him after so long spent at his side.

He doubted it would be long. 

Every day he seemed duller and more hollow than he had the day before, as if every moment spent by his side were draining the essential flame from his body.

Perhaps he would recover if they parted company soon.

But he could not believe it to be true.

Not when even the Devas- for all their strength and immense power- had been unable to survive him.

He could hardly expect a simple human such as Kazuichi to succeed where they had failed.

Soon he would release him.

He  _would_.

Soon.

But not  _yet_.

_Not yet._

He slammed back into the moment, retching, choking on the gravel of grief lodged thick within his throat. He tossed the soggy container in his hand away in favor of using his cold hand to brace against the floor as he heaved, curling his legs in as if they might shield him from the memory of those moments.  

“Hey, hey, you’re… okay, I’ve…”

Hands landed against his flesh, warm and familiar and all the more terrible for it and he slapped them away.

Not because he did not wish for them to touch him, but because he  _did_.

So  _badly_.

His vision blurred and his chest ached as he gagged again and again on the specter of loss.

That poor copy lingered at his elbow, begged explanations he could not have given even if he had been able to make sense of its words.

It was like he was at sea, struggling to stay afloat within the churning, storm-swept waters, but every time he managed to emerge he….

He-

He-

“Hey Gundham?”

“Yes?” He’d inquired, barely sparing Kazuichi a glance as he drew the needle through the exposed flesh of his knee in one smooth motion, exhaling through the pain as he slowly drew the thread taunt before turning the needle about to add another stitch.

“What’re you doing over break?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see him fidgeting, shifting his weight from foot to foot, left and then right then left again.

Was he nervous or impatient?

Or did he simply needed to urinate?

It was difficult to be certain.

The floor between them was scattered with drawings and maps for the proposed changes to the tunnels to allow the Devas even greater access to the many nooks and crannies of Hope's Peak.

“I will stay here as I always do, I suppose,” he answered finally, though he had yet to receive permission to do so. He had been denied before and been forced to spend the interminable length of Golden Week in a rented room in the filthy den of Gibrileth deep within the shadowy depths of Kabukicho.

The Devas had not enjoyed that particular adventure.

“Oh, um, yeah, okay, it’s just…” He yanked at his cap again, twisting the threadbare knitting between his fingers. It was a gesture he’d become quite familiar with since their original deal had been struck. “I was just wondering if maybe you might want to come back with me to my parents' place, but that’s… that’s probably stupid, yeah? I mean, why would you want to go there when you could ju-“

“I would like that,” he cut in quickly.

 _Too_  quickly.

The speed of his response reeked of desperation, revolting and grotesque and hopelessly  _needy_. He knew that, but could not reign in the impulse. Such was the depth of his desire to avoid another series of weeks spent haunting the empty halls of Hope’s Peak or- worse by far- living a furtive existence in whatever cursed accommodations were willing to rent their space to a being such as he without asking too many questions or demanding more money than he could afford to part with.

“Thanks,” Kazuichi breathed the word, every syllable relief. "Uh, sorry, um, I mean, that's... that's cool. I mean, it'll be fun, right? My parents are supposed to be out of town cause it's my mom's birthday so it'll just be the two of us. So, uh, yeah, it's gonna... it'll be cool."

He nodded quickly even though there was something about Kazuichi's words that twisted his stomach up in knots.

"Cool," he echoed, as he pulled the last stitch tight and tied it off.

He awoke to the drip of water pattering against tile echoing around him and the wheeze of labored breath.

Inches away the thing that wore Kazuichi's skin lay sprawled across the damp tile like a puppet with its strings cut, staring blankly into space as if frozen in place and time. If not for the rush of warm breath against his face he'd have thought....

He startled badly when it suddenly leapt to life and motion once more, screaming as it scrambled back away from him, panic leeching the color from its skin as the string of muddled curses and nonsensical syllables it shrieked echoed through the room, a terrible cacophony of sound that he could not escape even when he pressed his hands over his ears and murmured an incantation that should have been powerful enough to silence even the Ua Briain banshee.

He was not surprised when the spell failed, after all, his were magics that relied upon his life force as fuel.

Fortunately, he still had other tools at his disposal though he did not like the idea of employing them. It felt disrespectful to the Devas to treat this lesser demon as he would have treated them.

The screaming continued, devolving slowly into great heaving sobs as it scrambled backwards, still muttering to itself as it looked about the room as if feverishly seeking an escape route. Its fingers scratched across the tile at its back when it finally hit the wall and could retreat no further, as if it thought it might be able to burrow through the wall by sheer force of will.

“I didn’t… I didn’t  _do that_ , I wouldn’t… _wouldn’t_ … I…” The fiend made a terrible wrenching noise, choking on nothing, spittle dribbling across its chin. “I wouldn't,” he continued, scrubbing a hand across his face, jagged nails leaving a trail of pale marks across its flesh. “It wasn’t my _fault_. I didn’t… I didn’t  _know_ ,” it moaned, smacking a fisted hand against its forehead.

He was moving before he'd truly made the decision to do so, snatching hold of its hand before before it could do any true damage.

He....

The workshop was never quite dark, but it was always sporadically lit.

An eternally grey space broken by puddles of intense light that made the shadows seem all the deeper by contrast.

He liked to stand in the shadows, just outside the main force of illumination cast by the adjustable mechanical arms the mechanic used in his work, only trespassing beneath the full force of that brilliant light when it was absolutely necessary to do so. The mechanic had seemed to recognize that desire early on and instead of complaining he had seemed to go out of his way to find tasks for him that gave him ample excuse and opportunity to linger on the outskirts. On the whole, what the mechanic seemed to desire most from his presence was simply his continued company. It was not something he truly understood, but he found he enjoyed it nonetheless.

That was not to say he did not find ways to make himself useful. 

A bargain was struck, but it could only be properly maintained if both sides met it in truth as well as in practice.

So he found ways to make himself useful beyond what little the mechanic asked of him.

He had the Devas make a survey of the space and eliminate any weakened areas, leaving their cursed offspring to nest in those areas and safeguard the space when they were not present.

He also made a habit of regularly inspecting the workshop throughly for signs of tampering and traps. 

And if while doing so he also allowed him to keep a ready eye out for any hexes or runes that might explain his unlikely fascination with the mechanic and his machines, that was only a good use of time and well within the terms of their bargain. After all, it would be to the mechanic's advantage as well as such interference would also explain the mystery of mechanic's enduring interest in his continued presence. Though, even after he put forth his best efforts, he’d found nothing suspicious and was forced to tentatively conclude those sparks of interest to be genuine however suspect its origin.

Maga-Z nibbled at his ear and he slipped him a seed from the pouch in his pocket as he adjusted his grip on the mechanical monstrosity he had been asked to hold.

If he noticed his distraction, the mechanic gave no sign as he continued to speak of gears and fuel variations and- while he did not understand much of what he said when the mechanic began speaking of the more technical aspects mechanisms and differentials- he found he enjoyed listening to him his words nonetheless.

It was a strange feeling.

To find himself so enamored with the mundane ramblings of a mere human.

He couldn’t help but wonder if the mechanic was not, perhaps, something more.

He did not seem to believe himself to be anything special, but many did not see their own potential blinded as they were by the shadows of their own personal mythology.

Perhaps he had some demonic heritage of which he was unaware? 

It would certainly help to expla-

The clatter of a wrench hitting the tray toolbox open at his feet, brought his attention to focus razor-sharp upon the mechanic who was now staring at him with a focused gaze. His goggles had been shoved haphazardly up onto his forehead so as to make his pink hair bunch oddly beneath their crooked shape. At some point he had managed to smudge several lines of grease across his cheek.

He looked thoroughly ridiculous.

“So, um, look I was thinking…” The mechanic began, turning his gaze aside as his grease-blackened hands fidgeted restlessly with the parts laid out on the ground before him. “You could call me Kazuichi. If you wanted. Because… that’s my name, you know. Kazuichi. Well, I mean… maybe you  _don't_ know _,_ I mean, it's not like you’ve ever even called me Souda. Not that that's... I mean it's fine, but....”

The mechanic poked at the tire he'd just finished attaching to the robotic minion he had dubbed Rocket Man 2001, grabbing a socket wretch from the box and banging it against the rubber listlessly before re-tightening bolts he was certain did not actually require it.

_Kazuichi._

He had always made a habit of avoiding the use of names when possible. Particularly true names. There was always an inherent danger in speaking a true name aloud or giving one freely, though the mechanic did not seem to know or care about the perils of doing so if he were willing to offer his name so readily to one who had not yet bargained for it.

“I mean,” he continued, setting the wrench aside and give him another glancing look that had no sooner settled on him before it was off again, flitting attention across the darkened room as if in pursuit of fairies only he could see. “Look, I just… I just wanted you to know that you  _could_ , uh, call me that.  I mean, if you want to. You don’t... you don't have to.”

An offering?

Perhaps the mechanic wished for something more from him than he had already bargained for?

Or was this an attempt to earn his trust?

“What would you seek to gain from me with such an offering?” He asked finally, cautiously.

The mechanic glanced at him again, eyes wide and startled, as if he hadn’t been expecting a response. “Oh, uh, nothing, just… I mean, I….”

He faltered, shrugging and turning away once more, hunching over his work as he began to gather the assortment of parts and tools and dump them noisily back into the boxes from whence they came.

Though his face was hidden from view, he could see clearly enough that the back of his neck was as pink as the jagged length of his hair. “Look, I mean, you don’t  _have to_  if you don’t  _want to_ , it’s just… sorry, it’s stupid, huh? I mean it's longer than Souda too so it's not even like it'd be saving you time to use it. Yeah. Yeah, sorry, it was a dumb idea. It’s… just forget I said anything, okay?”

He laughed humorlessly, fingers casting a hammer aside so he could tug grease-stained fingers through his tangled hair.

“So stupid,” he breathed, barely a whisper.

“You may call me Gundham,” he found himself offering tentatively, in a voice he barely recognized as his own.

Even as the words left his mouth he cursed himself a fool for giving such permissions freely without even bothering with the incantation that would have obscured the syllables and keep his true name from being freely offered to another.

But what was done was done and there was no way to snatch back that which had been given freely no matter how much he might wish to.

He was Gundham Tanaka. He was the Forbidden One. He had faced down the great serpent at the world’s end and all the demons of hell in pursuit of his goals. He would not doubt his instincts now.

“I shall allow you to call me by my chosen moniker, the name I earned through trials of blood and agony the likes of which you could never begin to comprehend, that which I have given no other permission to use freely in all my time within this realm.”

The mechanic swiveled around on his spinning stool to stare at him, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish attempting to draw oxygen from the air.

He could not fault him for his bewilderment.

If anything that reaction made him more confident in his choice.

“Gundham.”

He could feel the pull of his true name, feel the summons of its utterance, the way those syllables tightened around his heart and squeezed, demanding his attention. The inherent power of such a thing made stronger by the way it was said.

As if it were special, as if the mechanic truly understood and cherished the gift he had been given.

No... he was the mechanic no longer.

“Kazuichi,” he replied gravely, allowing the knots of fate to tighten like a noose around their throats.

His smile was difficult to look upon, wide and brilliant as the sunrise.

He woke alone.

Cold.

Above him, the shower dripped lazily and around him the room was lit only by the dim cast of moonlight across the tiles.

Everything ached.

Slowly, painstakingly, he'd dragged himself to his feet and stumbled forward on legs gone numb, limbs stiff and wooden and tingling, to flail at the handle and put an end to that infernal drip.

In the distance he could hear the constant rush of ocean waves once more.

His skin felt strange, stiff and wrinkled and unpleasant to the touch, as if he had been lying beneath the water for hours.

When he finally limped out into the main room of the guest house to retrieve fresh clothing he had not been surprised to find a lukewarm bag of soggy ice cream melting in the middle of the floor or a puddle that reeked of artificial eggplant smeared across the floor beside a squished and dented black container.

In the days that followed, he poured over what he could remember of the fiend’s cursed mutterings with obsessive devotion. He looked for a pen and paper to write it all down but when he'd found nothing he'd instead used condiments from the diner to scrawl what he recalled of them across the walls of the beach house with ketchup. He scribbled his conjectures across the floor with soy sauce, pondered each fractured memory as they returned to him as if it might be the key to unlocking the mystery of that cursed creature's subterfuge and subsequent disappearance.

As if by doing so he might find some spell or charm embedded within the demon's pointless deceptions that would allow him to rip a hole in the fabric of his reality and escape.

But there was nothing.

Only the endless parade of days, each new morning the same as the last.

There were no answers to be had, no truths to be uncovered, no mysteries to be solved.

**DAY THREE  
+++**

Days passed and nothing changed.

All the fiend had truly left him with was a mouth full of bitter regret and a vague sense that he was missing something. That there was some terrible truth in that fearsome creature’s words and the way they resonated within him that no amount of effort on his part could ever lay bare.

Worse still was how that knowledge made him long for the fiend’s return.

Made him walk the limits of that cursed hellscape over and over as if in doing so he might simply stumble across it or the answers he sought.

Yet his efforts gained him nothing.

There was no sign of any life save his own.

There were no answers to be found.

Eventually he had turned his energies back to the task he had set for himself during those first solitary days.

The exhaustion that came with physical labor and the comfort of the monotony of such efforts, made it difficult to consider such inconvenient ideas. As days passed one into the next, the discomfort of the sun’s warmth against burnt his skin dark and darker still. The sunblock he slathered across his bare skin did little to dull the ache and at the end of each day he would feel the warmth of the sun lingering uncomfortably beneath his flesh, but that too served a purpose as it kept his mind from wandering down the darker paths that threatened always to claim what remained of his tattered soul and fading sanity.

And each night he dreamed.

He dreamed of warm flesh.

Of death.

Of laughter.

He dreamed that there was a great black pit that had cracked open at the center of his being that cried out eternally for blood and vengeance, that demanded sacrifice, that hungered always for that which it could not have.

He dreamed he was death itself.

Humans expired at his feet, their brief lives extinguished by his hand or his command, hundreds upon hundreds slaughtered by those meek beasts he had taught the joy of the slaughter.

And he had waded through their blood and felt  _nothing_.

And each morning he woke clawing at his chest as if he could pull that feeling, that emptiness, that wretched weakness from within his breast and cast it aside only to realize belated that it was a part of him, as inescapable as the hell in which his choices had stranded him.

And so he dug.

And he burnt.

And he dreamed.

Dreamed of a life in which he was not himself.

And he was.

He dreamed of a line fine as fishing wire and himself balanced atop it, that such was the perilous divide between the joy of battle and the love of slaughter, between what he was and what he could become.

In the depths of night, his dreams sometimes seemed to melt together, one into the next to form an abominable stew from the feel of the damp warmth of a mouth against him, the wet of blood on his hands, the comforting press of a body curled around his own, the crunch of bone beneath his feet and the snarl of creatures he raised with his own hands ravaging the lifeless bodies of his enemies.

And he woke up each morning, in the strange blue hours before dawn, desire a unquenchable fire within his veins, unable to breathe with the weight of guilt pressing down upon his chest.

That he should even dream of using the creatures of darkness as if they were mere  _tools_  rather than partners, rather than  _equals_  or  _betters_ , was enough to cause the ache in his loins to wither and die upon the vine, to bring the burn of tears to his eyes and the taste of bile to scald his throat.

In his dreams- in all those fractured memories- he was no better than those he had reviled, those he had sought to punish.

He was unworthy of those he had thought to save.

His touch was death itself.

And still he’d sought out others.

Still he’d allowed his own selfish desires to guide his actions.

Perhaps his time in that hellish parody of paradise was a punishment well-deserved.

Perhaps it was best that none that should chose to bear his touch might live, that those who should show him kindness should be cursed by the whatever gods dwelled above or below for their foolish transgressions.

For being so foolish as to care for one such as he.

One so undeserving of their affections.

Perhaps it was best he was alone.

No one to mourn and none to mourn for him.

He had thought himself resigned to his fate.

It was only then that something had changed.

That the rain had begun to fall.

And even as the first droplets fell upon him, it seemed as if the rain had been falling for a long time.

A long time.

And no time at all.

 **DAY THREE**  
**03:51:01 UTC**  
-continued-  
**+++**

“I mean, I don’t even  _like_  guys, well, I mean, I  _probably_ don’t like guys, so you should just, I don’t know, take it as a compliment or whatever. I mean, c’mon, what’s a wet dream or two between friends, right?”

No matter how irritating his words, he would not acknowledge them.

Not now.

Not again.

He would not allow it to turn him from his path.

He was not fool enough to throw himself willing into that trap once more.

“Not that we were friends  _exactly_ , I guess, but… I don’t know... maybe we were. Friends with benefits is a thing, right? So, I mean, we could have been like friends during the day and like... making out at night or something. What do you think?”

Would.

_Not._

“Or...ooooohhh.... maybe we were dating? Oh man… that's a weird thought. But like, I remember touching you a lot. I mean, like, _a lot_ , a lot. I mean, sure, I've never really thought I was into that, but... do you think we were like... doing  _it_? Not like, uh, not like just mouth or hand stuff, but like, you know....”

He could see the creature in his periphery illustrating his point with a crude series of hand motions… as if there were any chance he would mistake the act to which he was so obviously referring.

His hands tightened painfully against the rough wood of the shovel’s handle and he closed his eyes, but doing so only made its voice seem louder, its words more....

It gasped loudly enough to be heard even over the pounding rain, “Do you think I was the  _girl_? I was _definitely_ the girl, right? I mean, you’re all… I mean,  _look_  at you. There’s no way you'd just let me stick it in, right? Yeah, no way. So, I guess I had to be. If we were, you know, _doing it_.”

The fiend was still talking, but he could no longer hear his words beneath the buzz of static and the sudden rush of sudden undeniable rage.

“Enough!" He snapped at last, his patience finally shattering beneath the shade's relentless verbal assault. "Speak no more of these things or I shall cast you down into an abyss from whence you will _never_ escape! Heed my warning, fiend, for I shall give it only once! If you should continue to plague me, I shall visit upon you _unimaginable_ torment the likes of whi-”

The creature had the nerve to  _laugh_.

" _That's_  what finally gets you to talk to me? Holy crap! Your face is so _red_! I thought for sure your head was going to explode or something."

"It was your  _goal_  to anger me?" He asked, incredulous.

"Well, _yeah_."

As if it were  _obvious_ , expected even.

"What manner of fool would dare seek to taunt the fires of hell to burn them?"

"Well, it's your fault! If you'd just talked to me in the first place like a normal person instead of _ignoring me_ like the total dick you are I wou-"

"I will  _destroy_  you."

“Yeah, _okay_ ,” the fiend replied, still laughing, its cursed feet still banging back against the packed soil of the pit wall, sending bits of mud and rock flying. “Good luck with that. Seriously, I’m way up here and you’re way down there. Hey, what’re you— _hey!_ Hey! What’re- no, oh  _crap_!”

He was fast, had always been so, even as a child.

It was what had enabled him to survive so many perilous journeys and vicious battles in pursuit of the beasts of the dark places.

With any other enemy, he would have bided his time, spent hours waiting for the perfect moment to strike, the optimal moment in which to seek vengeance, but something about this creature wore thin the threads of his patience and he found himself surrendering to the childish and inescapable impulse to last out.

Which was why he leapt up and snagged the fiend's ankle and yanked it down into the pit with him without any thought for the consequences of doing so.

Unfortunately, the hole he had carved in the earth gave him disappointingly little room in which to move and he was unable to fully dodge its flailing limbs and his speed did little to save him as he fell down upon him. Which was how he ended up seated in the muddy water pooled in the bottom of the pit with his foe’s groaning, complaining weight pinning his legs and one arm down beneath the surface, the blade of the spade he’d been using wedged uncomfortably against his side.

“Wha-what the crap was  _that_?” It spluttered, pitch climbing high with the residuals of fear or panic, as it attempted to right itself only to end up tripping over their tangled limbs and falling face first back into the muck.

It sat back up, spluttering, spitting muddy water and wiping frantically at its face.

It looked _ridiculous_.

He threw back his head, triumphant laughter rough and unfamiliar in his chest after so long without, “This is what happens to all who dare to attempt to match wits with the Forbidden One! Know your better, foul beast, and never again attempt to best that which even the darkness fears! Your petty jibes mean nothing to one who who has defeated even the mighty wolpertinger!”

“Oh, go screw yourself,” the creature grouched, finally managing to free himself and scramble back against the far wall, swiping mud from its face with the backs of its filthy hands. “How was I supposed to know you could jump that freaking high, huh? And how the  _crap_  are we supposed to get out of this hole now,  _huh_? Can you jump all the way up  _there_ , Dark Lord of Stupid Town? Well?  _Can you?_ ”

The walls around them suddenly seemed impossibly high, the sky distant and untouchable as the rain continued to fall and the water level continued to rise around them, all the higher for the presence of an extra body within it.

His laughter died in his throat.

Perhaps, in hindsight, there were a number of details he hadn’t fully considered.

_**"Warning: Breach Protocol Activated: Level 5, Sector T17. Quarantine imminent."** _

The words boomed like thunder across the world, distant and half lost beneath the pouring rain, the flat feminine voice in which they were delivered both strange and familiar at once.

"... the heck was that?" The fiend at his side marveled, its face turned up to the sky as bright green lightning forked across the clouds overhead.

"Warning: Breach Protocol Activated: Level 5, Sector T17," the voice called again. "Quarantine imminent."

+++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while. I'm sorry about that. Getting settled into my new place and schedule took quite a bit longer than I thought it would and once I did get back to writing, I found I was really unhappy with pacing in this chapter so it needed to be reworked quite a bit before it could be booted out into the world. So, anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed it. :)
> 
>  **Day Two and Memory Chronology:** For the curious or confused, as I've mentioned before, most memories are not shown in chronological order. When this story is finished, I might publish the actual linear timeline if anyone is actually interested in that. If you have a specific question about something, feel free to ask. ^_^
> 
>  **Gundham's Belief System:** I sort of a went with a jungle juice party mixer which incorporates elements of a number of different religions, mythologies, methodologies, games, and magic systems. 
> 
> **What's in a Name?** I operate from the standpoint that Gundham Tanaka isn't his real name. As you might have guessed, I have a lot of opinions and theories about Gundham. 
> 
> **Next Time:** Finally picking back up where Chapter 19 left off. 
> 
> As always, thanks for the kudos and comments, they're always very much appreciated. Feel free to follow me over on tumblr if you're into that sort of thing: [ midnight-run-amok](https://midnight-run-amok.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  


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